To Make Much Of Time
by hiddenhibernian
Summary: "Fine. If you must know, I found your name in the phone book." For the second time in her life she had the pleasure of seeing him utterly disarmed by surprise, scowl temporarily dropping. Adrift from the wizarding world and having lost her magic, Hermione is desperate enough to track down Snape to get back. Follows canon up to the Battle of Hogwarts; rated M for language.
1. In Which Our Heroine Is Lost

**A/N:**

I don't own the characters; they are all the property of J.K. Rowling, and I don't make a penny from this either.

Since posting this fic, I have unfortunately discovered that there is another SS/HG fic with the same title on FFN, by the talented Mundungus42. The title is from a poem by Robert Herrick, and I have not set out to copy her in any way; my apologies if this has caused any confusion!

* * *

Hermione woke up.

She was in her own bed, she registered with a slight feeling of surprise. Her room looked the same as always, morning sun filtering through the venetian blinds bathing the room in a golden light. Her posters of the solar system and the periodic table looked down from the walls, gently nodding to the science books on the bookshelf.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stretched her hand out at the dressing table, fumbling for something out of habit.

It wasn't there.

She felt a hot little stab of fear in her stomach. She couldn't remember what it was, but she suddenly knew it was important. A watch? A gun? No, neither of these, she decided – why would she have a gun on her decidedly prosaic bed stand anyway? Firmly ruling out any flights of fantasy she scrambled around for some clothes, and ran down the stairs to see what was going on. Now that the shot of adrenaline through her veins had chased away the sleepiness she had a feeling of urgency; something was going on and she needed to be there.

The house was quiet.

"Mum? Dad?" Her voice rang out and she almost thought she could hear it echo back to her. The mantelpiece in the sitting room was covered in dust, and the plants that normally filled the bay window were missing from their pots. Looking around, she saw that there was a layer of dust everywhere. In the kitchen, the fridge was empty and the Aga was cleaner than she had ever seen it, mocking her with its shine. The Volvo was in the garage; it too covered in a thin layer of residue that smelt vaguely different to the drier dust insides. There was no sign of her parents anywhere.

A thorough inventory of the house revealed that Mr and Mrs Granger appeared to have gone on a lengthy holiday. Somewhere warm. During the coldest spring on record. Without their passports.

"Australia…" she remembered suddenly. Yes, they were definitely in Australia, the knowledge clicking into place in her brain like a brick sliding into the right place like when she played Tetris as a little girl. She knew she didn't need to be worried about them, that they were safe. The certainty bloomed inside her for a moment until her litany of questions resumed.

Why wouldn't they be safe here?

Thoroughly spooked now, she grabbed some of her father's golf clubs and placed them strategically around the house, checking doors and windows as she went. Suspiciously peering out of the windows, taking care to hide herself behind the curtains, she noticed nothing more threatening than Mr Hodges mulling about in his garden, and the postman passing over the Granger letterbox on his round.

Having checked that the burglar alarm was set she decided that she wasn't going to be ambushed right this minute, in the bright weekday morning light, so she might as well sit down and try to evaluate the situation. Unless Mr Hodges was in on it, in which case she was toast. He never liked her, at least not since he caught her cat catching a bird by the pond in his garden in third year. Like a flash of orange lightning she remembered… Crookshanks!

"Crooks! Come here, kitty, kitty, come… " Why wasn't Crookshanks here? She ran to the kitchen to look for his bowls by the back door, only to find the familiar space empty. She could even see scratches from his claws on the skirting boards, from when he hadn't been in the mood to wait for his food (just like someone else she knew, a fleeting thought chimed in but was overruled) – but her earlier search had unearthed no cat paraphernalia at all. Not even any hairs, and now that she could picture Crookshanks in all his ginger glory in her head she remembered that they ended up everywhere, exasperated her mother no end when she was home for the school holidays…

She could remember nothing about school. Nothing about what she did when she wasn't home, why she was left behind when her parents had gone to Australia.

Looking over the house again, she could see curious gaps – the bookshelf in her room looked nothing like its ordinary, overflowing self (she knew in her very hearts of hearts that her bookshelf would always be jammed full, the paralysing uncertainty could get no quarter there), the mantelpiece in her room was almost empty where picture frames should have been, some magnets on the fridge should have held photos but were hanging empty… and there were no schoolbooks in her room. No A-level course books, nothing.

Forcing herself to stop, to breathe, not to give in to the panic– she doesn't know why, but she knows she is stronger than this, that she has faced worse, that Hermione Granger will not give in. She makes a list of what she knows to be true.

She is eighteen. She goes to boarding school. There has been danger in her life recently, danger enough to drive her parents to the southern hemisphere. Her cat is missing. Something else, which should be with her always, is missing and it's not a silly watch. She may be in danger. And she should be somewhere else, she is needed somewhere beyond this empty house, a mausoleum to dust which would drive her father to distraction would he see the state of it.

And she knows she shouldn't tell people about her predicament. Not ordinary people, like Mr Hodges (not that he would help her anyway. Send her to the mental hospital, more like it).


	2. In Which Hermione Remembers

A/N:

Thank you so much for reviewing or following this story, it truly made my day!

* * *

Hermione ruthlessly clamped down on the feeling of panic and went grocery shopping instead. She wasn't attacked in Tesco, which reduced the prickly feeling of having a sniper gun trained at her back somewhat. Having wolfed down a fish pie (it felt as if she had been starved for months for proper food) she discovered that the phone was still working, and stopped her hand reaching for it just as she was going to call... someone.

She couldn't think of whom to call. No friends sprung to mind. She knew her grandmother was in a nursing home and didn't engage much with reality as defined by other people, and she didn't have her parents' number in Australia. She knew she had friends, she could feel it in her gut as she thought of loyalty and trust and love, but she just couldn't remember them…

And then Harry and Ron came back to her, she remembered their faces and Ron's hair, and all the Weasley's with him, and the curious scar on Harry's forehead, and magic, and Voldemort and Hogwarts and the Death Eaters and the Horcruxes and wands, and her world, her own world, she remembered it all…

She ruthlessly pushed her concern for her friends, and the sorrow for the deaths she could remember, for Fred and for little Colin Creevy, into a tight little box and set it aside in her mind. There will be time for this another day, she thought, there will be a time to remember them, but it isn't now.

The last year had taught her of survival and doing what you have to do. She made herself think of what needed to be done now, and then the panic returned. She was wandless and Voldemort was running wizarding Britain, and there was a very good reason indeed her parents were safely away while the second war against Voldemort came to its head. This house was a bad place to be, but where should she go?

The last thing she could remember was being on the Horcrux hunt, the interminable months camping, and fruitlessly searching, losing hope – Oh God, they really did break into Gringotts! She rode a dragon! And then there was the battle, and Harry died and then, thank God, he hadn't died after all and she had never been so relieved before – and the last thing she could remember was fighting in the Great Hall of Hogwarts, ducking for flying curses and Stupefying Death Eaters when she could.

The last time she had seen Harry he had been preparing to fight Voldemort, and all the combatants who were still standing had been watching the two of them facing each other at last.

She didn't know what had happened next.


	3. In Which Hermione Flees The Scene

She didn't stop driving until she had to fill up the tank with petrol in King's Lynn; she couldn't recall anything of consequence happening there in wizarding history, which now that her memory had returned was a fairly good indication Norwich wasn't going to be Voldemort's new capital. Afterwards, she spend three hours and twenty minutes reading through all the papers looking for signs that Voldemort now ran Britain. Even with the prospect of Death Eaters running the country she had to fight the impulse to explain to the girl in the news agent that she wouldn't buy the Daily Mail normally, that only a genocidal maniac threatening to overthrow the government with black magic could make her read that rag, but she resisted. She could always ask for a refund if Harry had won.

She couldn't remember the date they had been fighting at Hogwarts, but she assumed it was yesterday, from what she could remember of the date they had entered Gringotts. Any mass murders of Muggles should have made it into the papers by now. If their side had won she considered it more likely that there would be a cover-up of any magical activity, but there were no guarantees either way.

There wasn't much in the papers.

Some unexplained celestial phenomena were reported in Scotland, which tallied with a battle at Hogwarts and the wards breaking down for the first time in more than a thousand years. Even the ever-present, gut-wrenching anxiety for the people she loved was temporarily put aside for a new anguish when she thought of Hogwarts being destroyed in the battle, ransacked by Death Eaters who violated her home in the magic world. She could find no trace of this invasion in the papers, other than what she recalled as the usual daily litany of Muggle murder and mayhem in Britain.

Maybe they had won. Maybe Harry was even alive. Her memories of what had happened towards the end were a bit hazy, and she couldn't seem to make them resurface by force. It could be fatal to rush in half-cocked in a situation like this, but the urge to find out what had happened was impossible to overcome. She had to be able to contact someone, do something…

She knew it was too dangerous to go to Scotland; even if she could find Hogwarts, now that the wards were down, she couldn't just barge in and demand to know if they had won the battle. Not if she wanted a life expectancy of more than five minutes before Snape had her Avada'd, that is. No, Professor Snape was on their side! She remembered Harry circling around with Voldemort, what he had said about Snape and his mother…

Even in her present state of uncertainty, Snape's true loyalties were shocking enough to merit consideration. So this was why Dumbledore had been so sure of Professor Snape's true allegiance… and he must have asked Snape to kill him! Seeing what Harry had described as murder in cold blood with that one piece of additional information tilted all the facts she thought she knew on their head. All her niggling little questions; Dumbledore's uncharacteristic pleading, the new Headmaster's relatively lenient punishment when the DA tried to steal the Sword of Gryffindor, the relative lack of bloodshed at Hogwarts this year; everything suddenly made sense.

She still couldn't drive to Hogwarts though.

Having ruled out the Ministry of Magic (she was lucky to get out alive the first time), Diagon Alley (ditto), Hogsmeade, Godric's Hollow and the Burrow, she decided that she would have to find out who had won before rushing into danger again. Besides, without a wand she didn't even know how to get to most wizarding places.

Having driven while she was assessing the situation (after their time on the run she felt too exposed staying in the same place), she used some of the remaining cash that she had withdrawn before going to Tesco, to pay for a rural B&B in the middle of nowhere in Norwich. It felt too conspicuous to sleep in the car, and besides she wouldn't be sorry if she never had to go camping again. Twenty quid was worth it to stay in a bed again. If she was killed by Voldemort's forces tomorrow she would at least have one regret less, she thought as she burrowed into the mustard-yellow quilt in a bedroom untouched by any idea of style dating from the last three decades. She managed to push away the loneliness of sleeping alone for the first time for months, to be dealt with some other time.


	4. In Which Hermione Visits Bedfordshire

The central library in Bedford did have a copy of all phone catalogues in the UK, she noted gratefully. Milton Keynes didn't (it had been the last place she could imagine the Death Eaters would set foot). She was a bit nervous (it almost drowned out the consistent, paralysing fear when she thought of Harry, and Ron, and the Weasleys, and Professor McDonagall, and Luna, and everyone else) when she entered the library. She half-expected the Snatchers to appear, cackling in triumph, after lying in wait for the know-it-all to break down and come in for her fix.

The familiar smell of the library further set her mind at ease. It wasn't as wonderfully, reassuringly ancient as at Hogwarts, but still worth savouring. Maybe things would still be all right, some time, even though she remembered the bodies laying on the grass at Hogwarts.

Armoured with a list of all the members of the Order of the Phoenix or classmates she could remember who had a connection with the Muggle world, she went to work.

She worked through the phone books all day, becoming steadily more desperate. She had so little information about the details of her friends' Muggle lives. Thanks to Colin Creevy's loquaciousness she could find some Creevys in Bugbrooke outside Northampton, whom she was sure must either be his parents or other close relatives.

Drawing a deep breath that turned out more like a sob and caused the sleepy, grey-haired librarian to look her way, she realised that she couldn't. No matter how desperate she felt, she couldn't call them. Not after seeing his glassy, dead eyes on the green grass on the lawn at Hogwarts in front of her, every time she tried to fall asleep. She had no right, no matter how the battle had ended.

She started to flag towards closing time, after crossing off dead end after dead end: there were simply too many Bells in Bath and Thomases in Tottenham to call them all. Not unless she still wanted to be stuck in a telephone kiosk when the Death Eaters arrived.

Hermione did have some numbers on her mangled list when she exited the unprepossessing, late Victorian building into the dusk, searching for a phone booth well lit enough to prevent her from being mugged, while not advertising her position in case someone was trawling the streets specifically for her.

She listened as the phone rang out in what she imagined to be Kingsley Shacklebolt's sleek, modern apartment. Once he had extolled the virtues of Danish design to her in Grimmauld place, that long-ago summer she spent there. She told herself she never held out much hope that he would pick up the phone whichever way things had gone, being too busy either running the ministry or being dead.

The very posh voice resident at the Brocklehurst family seat Swythamley Park in Stafford informed her rather sniffily that there certainly was no "Mandy" in the vicinity, effortlessly conveying his opinion that the name was far too plebeian for his taste. Hermione never had anything against the Ravenclaw, so she was faintly relieved Mandy wasn't related to the rather patronising baronet.

The next day she arrived at the rather dilapidated doorstep of Kempston library, determined to use her new Bedfordshire libraries membership card to find at least a few more possibilities after calling all the Stimpsons in Berkshire. Who would have had thought there would be twenty-four of them? Of course not a single one of them would admit to knowing Patricia. Last night, she had remembered that Justin Finch-Fletchley had been down for Eton before going to Hogwarts, so even though she couldn't find a number in the phone book for Kensington it must be possible to trace his parents somehow. He never spoke much about his family's circumstances, but she had always suspected it was due to them being significantly wealthier than the relatively modest circumstances of other Muggleborn students in Hufflepuff in his year. A flash of a fancy watch on the Hogwarts express, and Justin letting slip in an aside that his family had a place in St. Tropez, had stuck in her memory.

Standing in the phone booth yesterday evening, before her dinner of soggy curry chips, she had even dialled the familiar number to Privet Drive. No one had picked up the phone. She did know the Dursleys were being hidden by the Order (assuming they didn't change their mind again after Mr Dursley's dithering last summer before Harry left for the last time), but she couldn't help calling anyway – it was the closest she had felt to Harry and the rest of her friends since she woke up alone in her room.

Hermione had remembered the Deluminator during her frantic drive yesterday. If Ron was OK, if he still had the device and it was safe to use it, would he not have come after her by now? She refused to follow that thought to its logical conclusion, but she did resolve to maintain constant vigilance, for what it was worth without a wand. It was foolish to give up hope when she had been through so much, and putting all her trust in Ron's ability to remember the Deluminator's existence when God knows how many of his family members were dead was foolish and unfair to Ron… Better to reserve judgement, and stop thinking right there. She had a task to do.

Remembering those horrible weeks after Ron had walked out on them, she couldn't help wondering if she was important enough for him to come looking for, now that she was on her own without Harry. Something fragile between them had broken when Ron walked out; she didn't know if she could ever trust him with to stick with her through thick and thin.

She loved Ron, but when she thought of spending her life with him she felt afraid, rather than eager.

A few years ago, she had read Agatha Christie's autobiography when she was on the train to London. She quite liked the author, but she couldn't understand what she was thinking when she married her first husband, Archie. He told her outright before they got married that he couldn't stand it when things were really bad, that he was only there for the better, not worse. Being young and in love she married him anyway, but they got divorced when he ended up having an affair, after Christie's mother had died. She had had to deal with her grief and manage the estate alone.

When Hermione was fourteen, it had seemed so stupid to shackle yourself to a man you couldn't trust, and so horrible to be left to manage on your own. She had remembered the story after Ron had returned, and thought about it quite a lot. Would that be her, needing Ron desperately but finding that he would walk out on her when things got too hard? She hadn't been able to stop herself from wondering, and that had slowly killed any prospects she could see for them in the future. Forget about how she would ever get it through his head that she didn't want to be like Mrs Weasley and have half a dozen children and mind the house– this wasn't something she could be content that they could compromise about in the future. She was not willing to go through that sort of pain again; only it would be even worse if she was actually in a relationship with him.

Hermione had forgiven him for leaving, but resolved to never ask him for more than he could give. She loved him, but she would never let herself love him like anything other a brother, she knew that now. Ron was too important to her to risk losing him completely. She remembered his concern for the house-elves before they went into the battle, and felt a sudden, fierce love for her friend, and knew that he wouldn't have forgotten about her.


	5. In Which Hermione Finds Two Clues

Mr Raymond Finch-Fletchley was a banker with Coutts, and had his own entry in Who's Who. Hermione smiled at his photo, which betrayed that Justin inherited his curls from his father (even though Mr Finch-Fletchley evidently had done his best to subdue their unbankerly exuberance), and resolved to call him as soon as she had followed up her next idea.

She couldn't stop thinking about the frantic fighting at Hogwarts, before she had been torn away from the battle. When she was trying to fall asleep she kept seeing the battle in front of her, curses ricocheting off the walls and flying around her, the joy of seeing that Harry was alive and the almost complete silence from the crowd when Harry was facing Voldemort. Last night, she had suddenly remembered what Harry had been saying about Snape and why he had betrayed Voldemort all those years; that Snape had loved Lily Potter since they were children.

She knew that Lily Potter, née Evans, had been born in Frickley, near Doncaster, because Harry had once shown her his parents' marriage certificate that he had found among Sirius's effects in Grimmauld Place. Being Hermione Granger, she had looked up Frickley, with the vague idea that it could be interesting to stop by on the Horcrux hunt. Since Lily's parents were dead, and had been Muggle anyway, she had subsequently ruled it out. She couldn't imagine Voldemort hiding part of his soul in the North of England, the pompous twat.

But maybe the Snapes were still there?

The Doncaster phone book contained no Severus Snape, but her shaking hands revealed a T. Snape, 9 Spinner's End, Frickley, Doncaster, South Yorkshire. She remembered his mother had been Eileen Prince when she went to Hogwarts, so was this a sibling? His father?

Her ever-active brain actually shut down when trying to imagine how Professor Snape's father was likely to react to one of his students phoning up to inform him that since his son hadn't actually been a traitor after all, would he kindly tell her who won the battle of Hogwarts? She did remember seeing Snape alive, even after Nagini's attack – apparently it wasn't an idle boast that he could put a stopper in death – so maybe this would actually work!

Two places to call, and it wasn't even lunchtime yet! She easily found the number to Coutts, and celebrated with a latte, cutting into her rapidly decreasing funds.

* * *

Having decided to claim she was Justin's cousin Charlotte, daughter of his equally distinguished uncle Tristan (courtesy of Who's Who's very useful listings on the Finch-Fletchleys), until she got through to Mr Finch-Fletchley, she squared her shoulders and phoned up Coutts. She was profoundly grateful they didn't know she had broken into their wizarding equivalent.

It didn't go so well. Mr Finch-Fletchley's secretary would not give out his mobile number even though Charlotte was stranded at Charles de Gaulle airport with no money on hand, and she wouldn't say when Mr Finch-Fletchley was expected back in the office or why he was on leave. It looked as if Justin's parents might have joined him on the run. Or Voldemort may have got to them first.

Mr T. Snape's phone had been disconnected, British Telecom informed her in dispassionate tones. She was faintly relieved that she didn't have to convince a Snape to speak to her, but that didn't help her now.

She had looked at the map before leaving the library. Doncaster was 140 miles or so away, on the M1. Almost three hours to get there. London was nearer, but London was also dangerous. The last time she was in wizarding London she had broken into Gringotts, and the last time she set her foot in Muggle London she had almost been caught by Death Eaters on Tottenham Court Road.

Victorious Death Eaters were also far more likely to attack the Muggle population in London, so Frickley it was then.

* * *

**A/N:**

Coutts is the bank of the Queen of England. It's very posh, and maybe J.K. Rowling banks with them too. I don't, since I don't own any of her characters and don't make any money from this.


	6. In Which She Meets Her Former Professor

Frickley was rather bleak. She couldn't imagine Harry's mom growing up here. Lily had always looked so glamourous in the pictures she had seen of her. With a jolt she realised that Lily was only three years older than herself when she was killed by Voldemort. She would only be thirty-eight had she been alive now, much younger than her own parents. Lily had had so little time, so much life to squeeze into a few, precious years…

Suddenly her eyes filled with tears for her friends who hadn't even been given that, never got to get married and have a child or even live long enough to grow up. Angrily wiping the tears away she pulled into the side of the road, and tried to match the map she had ripped out of the phone book at the library to the streets around her. There was Broad Balk, traversing Back Lane.

Her heart was beating a wild tattoo as she left the car behind and walked down towards Spinner's End. The well-kept, dark blue Volvo looked out of place next to the empty shop fronts and desolately flapping circus posters. Having kept up her daily autopsy of the newspapers for anything that might be related to the war, she was still as clueless as before. For all she knew she might be walking into a Death Eater ambush.

Two things kept her walking down the eerily empty laneway of abandoned two up, two downs: the first was the lack of any sign of recent Death Eater activity. If victorious, surely they would have made themselves known now that they couldn't have anything left to fear? The second was the incongruity of her former professor's position as Voldemort's most trusted follower, and the squalor that surrounded her. She knew enough about pureblood pretensions to assume Professor Snape must have kept this part of his past as secret as humanly possible, to maintain his persona as the ultimate Slytherin.

Having rehearsed what she would say to Mr T. Snape when he opened the door for the fourteenth time (she really had to get hold of Professor Snape, she was a former student and his school had faced an unspecified calamity which required his help, then she would have to see how he reacted), she straightened her back and knocked on the door she deduced had to be number 9.

After knocking intermittently for five minutes she had to sit down on the front step to counter the sudden wave of hopelessness. She was so tired, so very tired, and she was afraid to go into London without any protection. Of course Professor Snape had sent his relatives away too. What would they want to stick around here for?

When the door opened she almost fell backwards into a cloud of black wool, but managed to scramble up on her feet and turn around, facing the familiar, gaunt shape of Professor Snape.

His dark eyes looked down on her wearily while she recovered her wits. Whereupon she promptly burst into tears and threw her arms around him, his body remaining taut and inflexible while she was shaking with wild sobs.

She pulled herself together, straightening up and separating herself from him, and wiped her runny nose with her sleeve, swallowing the last tears.

"I'm-" Her voice almost broke again, but with a heroic effort she started again and mastered herself. "I'm terribly sorry, sir, but I am just so glad to see you!"

She never thought she would see the day when Severus Snape, Potions Master, Death Eater, and spy for the Order of the Phoenix lost his guard completely – both eyebrows raised, slack jaw and all. After a long second he looked quickly up and down the street and pulled her into the dank, dark house.


	7. In Which They Have Tea

Professor Snape appeared to regain his usual demeanour in a very short space of time, and started firing questions at her as soon as he had closed the door behind them.

"Do you have your wand?" His voice was raspy, as if he had just woken up – but he looked as if he hadn't slept since he last taught her at Hogwarts. The deep lines from his nose down to his thin mouth looked like they had been carved into marble, in the faint light in his hallway.

His shoulders deflated minutely at her answer, but he proceeded to sling more questions at her: how did she get there, where did she leave her car, and what precautions had she taken to ensure she wasn't followed? She bridled at this: "Well, I couldn't think of anything, Professor, seeing as I'm on the run from Vol- You-Know-Who, and I really don't think I could shake him off by going down a one way street or something!"

He recoiled visibly. "Don't call me that!" he snapped.

Hermione cast around for her mistake, and remembered. "Sorry, Headmaster, it's just that… "

Snape swung around, his glittering eyes barely visible in the gloom: "I am no longer the Headmaster of Hogwarts, Miss Granger, so kindly don't address me as such. Now tell me _what you are doing here!" _The last sentence ended in a snarl.

"Please, sir, can you tell me what happened at Hogwarts? Did Harry defeat Vo- You-Know-Who? Did we win?"

"I don't know." She stared uncomprehendingly at him. When she saw him opening the door, she was so sure he would have all the answers. He always had before, after all, even though he may not necessarily be inclined to part with them.

"I don't know, Miss Granger, because I was torn away before Potter and the Dark Lord started fighting." She looked sharply at him at that. He motioned towards a door she had been too absorbed to notice before, and she sat down on an ancient sofa as he sunk into an even more worn armchair.

"Now you will tell me how you found this place," he ordered quietly in his classroom voice, which wormed its way into her subconscious and almost made her hand twitch. She fought back.

"How can you even be alive, sir? I saw you _die_!" She remembered how his blood had relentlessly poured out on the floor of the Shrieking Shack; how he had grabbed Harry and made him look into his eyes before going still, grip slackening. They hadn't stayed behind to make sure he really was dead - why would they?

"Evidently you weren't concerned with my well-being at the time, so I fail to see how it could be any of your concern now." His barb was just as vicious as she remembered from double Potions with Slytherin on Thursday afternoons, but somehow it failed to convince her that he was the same man then as he was now. He hadn't ever been the man she thought he was; she would have to re-evaluate everything she thought she had known about him.

"I really am sorry, sir, had I known you really were on our side I would have tried to do something… We wouldn't had left you there – "

"But you wouldn't have helped someone from the other side, now, would you?" he broke in sharply.

"No." She held his gaze for a beat, unapologetic. She had fought in a war, and it had changed her whether she liked it or not.

"Not that it is any of your business, but I had made contingency plans once the giant reptile became a permanent fixture by the Dark Lord's side," he volunteered unexpectedly, perhaps in recognition of the fact that they had been fellow soldiers. Maybe still were. He had let the curtains of dark, lank hair swing forward and hide his face, in a way she remembered from seeing him at Grimmauld Place, constantly at loggerheads with Sirius.

" 'Put a stopper in death'" she quoted under her breath, and his eyes flicked towards her again for a second.

"Quite."

Silence settled on the room for a second, and she noticed how utterly quiet the little house was. No clock ticking, no radio, no appliances humming in the background.

"How did you find this place?" He returned to his unanswered question, refusing to let it go. "You are in my _home_," he sneered at the word, "so I believe you owe me the simple courtesy of telling me before I am overrun by my erstwhile comrades in arms. From either side."

"Fine. If you must know, I found your name in the phone book." For the second time in her life she had the pleasure of seeing him utterly disarmed by surprise, scowl temporarily dropping.

* * *

Eventually it took two cups of horribly strong tea and most of the afternoon to tell her story. She told him how she had woken up in her parent's house, how she had tracked him down and how she had been unable to make contact with the magical world without exposing herself. She told him what she remembered from the battle at Hogwarts, and how the last thing she could recall was watching Harry telling Voldemort and the rest of the combatants of his own true loyalties. She sensed that he would erupt in a manner that made any previous explosions she had witnessed pale into insignificance, should she bring up how he had remained Dumbledore's man to the end through his love for Lily Potter. While telling her story, she thought of how Snape had bullied and cut down Harry, who everyone said looked just like his father, at every opportunity. Knowing the final piece of the puzzle, she could begin to understand why he always had seemed to lack reason when it came to Harry. He finally seemed to have seen that Harry was his mother's son too at the very last moment in the Shrieking Shack, but what on earth could he be thinking now?

From the moment Snape opened the door she had known he must be wandless too. Regardless of his disdain for foolish wand waving, he would never leave his wand behind him voluntarily at a time of war. Despite their current circumstances being remarkably similar, she managed to suppress her curiosity a little while longer, and told him about the movements she had observed in the battle: who had gone down and who was still left standing.

He stayed mostly still while she was talking, not meeting her eyes, his face hidden behind his hair again. When she faltered over the dead students, Fred and Colin Creevy, even over Crabbe being lost to the flames, his preternaturally calm breathing was the only thing that anchored her to this moment in the dusty room where the faint daylight filtered in between the flimsy curtains. He didn't ask her any questions that she would have refused to answer, and seemed to refrain from asking any questions about the gaps in her story where she had skimmed over the Horcruxes. She had decided that she would still protect the secret until she knew what had happened at Hogwarts, no matter what Harry had revealed in the battle. Until she knew for sure that Voldemort really was dead, it would be supremely foolish to assume he was gone.

When she had finished her story, she resolved not to let Snape control the conversation this time. She too needed answers.

"Why are you here, sir?" She threw down the gauntlet, unable to resist any longer.

"Maybe I decided that the battle could be finished without me. Surely I have given up enough of my life to Potter and the Order, and should be able to enjoy my peaceful retirement." She didn't even bother replying to that, simply communicating her utter disbelief that he would walk away before the battle was finished by fixing her gaze on him and leaning forward expectantly, waiting for him to continue.

"Fine." He borrowed her expression and laced it with venom. "I too was transported from Hogwarts to my childhood bed, waking up in a house empty of any objects with any connection to magic, and have slowly regained my memories since then." He didn't mention he had thought he finally was in hell when he remembered who he was and what he had done since the last time he had slept in that bed.

"What do you think happened to us, sir?" She had a sinking feeling in her stomach, but managed to keep a tone of polite interest. He picked up a badly disfigured pencil from the coffee table, and started mapping out the Great Hall of Hogwarts in the dust.

"Potter and the Dark Lord were here," he tapped the Formica surface, "and you were standing here. I remember standing right behind you when Potter started spilling his guts. We must have been hit by the same curse."

"And what curse was that?" Why was it taking him so long to get to the bloody point?

"I think," he said quietly, "that it was a very old, very Dark curse that strips the victim of all their memories of magic. It was used against Muggleborns in the Dark Ages to send them back to their presumed humble origins, never again to encroach on the Purebloods' world."

"And the curse didn't work completely because it hit the two of us?"

"It worked a little too well. The original curse fell into disuse since most victims who were reasonably powerful wizards rediscovered their magic, and then could exact their revenge on the most likely culprit." The cloud over his brow suggested that he would at this very moment be doing the same, had the opportunity presented itself.

"However, the caster of this curse appears to have modified it to relegate the victim completely to the Muggle world." She didn't want to hear what was coming next; she could barely manage to hold herself still and impassive as she was waiting for him to finish.

Snape seemed to fold in on himself, wrapping himself in the darkness like a shroud.

"I can no longer do any magic." The words fell like tombstones into the quiet room. She remembered now, how he could close the doors to his classroom with a single flick with his hand, no wand visible. How people had whispered that he had flown without a broom at Hogwarts, before joining Voldemort's army in the battle. The lack of a wand shouldn't have presented one of the most powerful wizards she had met with any insurmountable difficulties.

"Miss Granger, did you ever master any wandless magic?"

She would rather have faced him in a thundering rage in the Potions classroom a thousand times over, than facing up to this test, which he put to her in such dispassionate terms that he could have been inquiring about the weather. During the long, claustrophobic evenings in the tent with the boys, she had spent many an interminable night on watch trying to master some sort of wandless spells. It had been clear to her what an advantage it would be to be able to use magic when believed defenceless. She never managed anything more advanced than an Accio, but she finally had been able to master it.

"Yes." He looked at her expectantly, his posture suddenly reminiscent of his calmer moments as a teacher. She clamped her teeth together to keep them from clattering and drew a few deep breaths before proceeding.

Nothing she did had any effect on the pencil on the table; it didn't even rock from side to side despite all her efforts. She put her previously subconscious feeling of malaise into words: "I should be able to feel my magic, even without a wand. There is… nothing, now. Since I woke up in my old room." She could hear her pulse beating in her ears, the stark reality of this latest loss settling in on top of everything else.

She was profoundly shocked when he suddenly started laughing. If it had been someone else, she would have said he was almost hysterical. He kept on for almost a minute, and, despite everything else going through her head at that moment, it deeply annoyed her that he found it a laughing matter. Ironic as it might be to see the Hogwarts know-it-all stripped of her powers, she didn't really think she had deserved this. When he stopped abruptly and looked at her, her anger evaporated. His eyes seemed to be burning with more emotion she had ever seen in them, and his face was anguished rather than amused.

"I couldn't even die when I was supposed to. It would have been better had I expired on the floor in the Shrieking Shack, rather that drawing down Mulciber's retribution on your head. I can only apologise for the harm I have brought to you, and assure you that it was not my intention to destroy your life."


	8. In Which Snape's Unmentionables Appear

**A/N:**

Not mine, no money. Next update will be posted on Thursday. Thanks for reading!

* * *

Hermione stared at Snape, at a loss for words. He reverted to his painfully formal manner of speaking, again locking down all emotions in his demeanour. "I have made some notes from memory with my recollections of anything that may be pertinent to the lifting of the curse. It would seem that you don't recall the very last moments you were present at the battle. The curse was cast by Mulciber, when-" he obviously cast around for what to say without mentioning Harry or Lily, "my true loyalties were revealed. You were regrettably caught in the crossfire when attempting to push me out of harms way. I fear that the curse may have affected you more strongly given that you are Muggleborn, but our symptoms appear to be very similar. "

He appeared to steel himself before proceeding. "I don't know if is possible to lift the curse, or if its effects are permanent. If the Dark Lord was victorious it may even protect you, as you will be exceedingly difficult to track down by magic." She had suspected he wouldn't have any good news, judging from his grim expression, but hearing one of her worst fears verbalised as a distinct possibility made her long for the days the very worst thing she could imagine was failing all her exams. She still couldn't find anything to say to him.

He rose from were he had been seated, and wobbled imperceptibly before straightening up. "I will collect the notes. You had better leave as soon as possible." The first tendrils of dusk had sneaked in under the threadbare Seventies curtains while they were talking. She wasn't sure if she really had seen, or just imagined, a mask of sorrow falling over his face for a second before he spoke again.

"I would deem it a very large favour if you would advise me how the battle went when you do find out. A letter will find me here. Considering it repayment for the times I protected you miscreants in the past."

"That's it?!" she exclaimed in outrage. "You want me to leave now?"

"I am very sorry for the loss of your magic," he said, and now some of his old vitriol returned, "but I will not beg for your forgiveness on my bare knees."

"I don't want you to apologise! It's not your fault; we were in a bloody battle! I could have been cursed by anyone, and been killed instead!"

"Then what do you want, Miss Granger? Surely Spinner's End is not so attractive that you wish to extend your visit?"

"What will you do, sir? Will you just sit here and wait for my letter, when I do all the footwork? Enjoying your _retirement_?" she spat. He moved into what had to be the kitchen and emerged with a bundle of cheap notepads. His familiar handwriting looked oddly out of place in ballpoint pen. She wordlessly accepted the bundle; he went back to the kitchen for a plastic bag when he realised that she was only going to stick them under her arm. It was an oddly domestic touch, to imagine Severus Snape saving up old plastic bags under the sink. He motioned to the door to the small hallway.

"You had better leave now. This place is not safe, and you have already been here too long." Hermione dug her elbows into the sofa and held her ground, while he leaned against the doorframe.

"What about you, sir? Why are you still here if it is so dangerous?"

"That is none of your concern."

"Yes, it is! If you think you owe me an apology for being hit by the same curse as you, you can make amends by letting me stay here instead. I will not walk away from the only person from my world I can find." She realised that it wasn't very complimentary, and rushed to add: "After being stuck with Harry and Ron in a tent for months I could definitely use some conversation that is not about the War, Quidditch or food!"

"Miss Granger, a large number of Death Eaters from the Dark Lord's inner circle know the location of this house. In the event of their victory, someone will eventually come and look for me here. You had better leave at once." He swayed where he stood, unable to keep up his stance.

Afterwards, he blamed subsequent events on the aftereffects of the blood loss he had sustained when attacked by Nagini. He had managed to return to the fight quicker than any Healers would have thought possible, had they been watching, but he paid the price afterwards when the modified (and borderline illegal) Strengthening Solution wore off and set back his recovery. Not having access to any magical means of restoration he had to resort to his potions skills and adapted them to Muggle ingredients, using his kitchen stove and the local pharmacy to patch himself together, but after the long afternoon with Miss Granger he had reached the end of his endurance.

Hermione quickly grabbed him and guided him to the armchair, and braved the ancient, surprisingly clean kitchen to get him a glass of water. She sat down opposite him again and worried her lip with her perfectly straight front teeth as he recovered. While she didn't want to rush him into something he would make her regret later, she still had to take advantage of his temporary weakness to get him out of this house. It was clear that he would stay here and wait for whomever the victors of the battle were, if he was left to his own devices. She had no intention of leaving him there. Not only was he the only human being she had in the world this moment, she also owed him an enormous debt of gratitude for everything he had done in the war. She had done him a grievous injustice by believing that he was a traitor; it may have been exactly how Dumbledore had planned for things to turn out, but that didn't mean that he deserved having the Order turning its back on him after he was forced to murder his mentor and friend. Keenly feeling the separation from her friends, she could only imagine what the last year must have been like for him, surrounded by Death Eaters and trying to protect the students at Hogwarts.

"Sir, I will not leave here without you. Please believe me. I have no intention of leaving you here like a sitting duck, and I will not go off on my own either. I've had enough of that. You simply have no other choice than coming with me." Snape barely appeared to be conscious, but looked up at her words, straight into her eyes.

"I'm sure you remember how persistent I can be," she added to her entreaty, managing a weak smile. "I will pack some things for you now, and then we will leave. Is there anything in particular you would like me to pack?" He continued to stare at her, but made no move to acknowledge her question. She figured that he must have secured any sentimental items long before (the house didn't strike you as a place where you would amass a lot of fond memories in any case), and made quick work of gathering up any clothes and personal possessions she could find. She did find herself maniacally reciting: "I'm going through Snape's underwear! I'm rooting through Snape's unmentionables!" as she dug through his drawers, but managed to keep her composure.

It was easy once she had to face Snape himself again. "Is there anything I can get you, sir? We will have to walk to the car," She omitted to mention that she didn't dare leave his house to move the car up closer for fear that he would lock the door and refuse to let her back in. He gestured over to one of the plastic bags she had filled with his things, and after she brought it to him he dug out an anonymous bottle, knocked back the contents and regained some colour. He still looked like a corpse, skin frighteningly pale. "Up we get then, Miss Granger," he mumbled and she almost believed she had imagined it, until he labouriously started getting making his way up from the armchair.

Her neck crawled with premonition as they painstakingly half walked; half dragged their way to the car. He would have been to heavy for her to support, had he not been so very thin. She couldn't stand being in the open like this, completely exposed to anyone who might come looking for Snape or her. Finally they got into the car, and she drove away from Frickley, towards Barnsley and then Leeds. It was dark when they got to the city, and she spent some time driving around while she was formulating a plan, before finding them a shabby motel that didn't seem to ask any questions and provided them with two single beds. She wasn't about to cuddle up to Snape if she could help it, whether he was her only ally or not.


	9. In Which They Settle In

A/N:

We're about one third through now - plenty to go! Thank you so much for reading, and for the lovely reviews - I really appreciate them! Next chapter will go up in two day's time as usual.

* * *

They had established a routine of sorts after a few days. Every morning she would get the papers, and they would go through them together, occasionally pointing out a suspect reference or remarking on some new evidence of the stupidity of humankind in general (Snape) or some interesting fact (Hermione). They had it down to no more than two and a half hours, neither of them willing to relinquish full reign of their particular favourites to the other.

After lunch Hermione would go to the library to follow up any new avenues of inquiry, while Snape rested, and they would eat dinner together when discussing what they had found out. It was usually depressingly little.

After the first night, it had become clear that she must find somewhere more suitable to stay. Neither of them was very comfortable sharing a room. She had managed to get a tiny flat with two bedrooms for £150 per week in Huddersfield, where the landlord would accept cash and wasn't too bothered about ID as long as she paid a hefty deposit. She had a few thousand pounds left on her bank account and she could always drive somewhere far away to use her ATM card if she had to access it, but their joint resources were fairly meager. While she worried about finances, Snape worried about safety. They were both extremely vulnerable without magic. He didn't think many people knew he had survived; most of the ones who had recognised him in the battle were Death Eaters who got a short but lethal surprise when they realised whom they were fighting. It was unlikely that anyone would assume that they were together, especially if they were aware of the nature of the curse that had hit them. Logic therefore dictated that Snape stayed hidden, and Hermione kept a low profile.

They had a few scares. Once, Hermione saw someone who looked uncannily like Dolohov in the street. Once Snape finally managed to persuade her that he had seen him go down after being hit by Professor Flitwick with an Avada Kedavra and that there was no possible way for anyone except Potter to come back from that, she calmed down and sheepishly started unpacking.

A rainy Tuesday morning they heard the stomp of heavy boots coming up the stairs, and for a heartbeat they froze, almost in disbelief that their tranquil existence finally had been shattered. Snape recovered first, and bundled her into the wardrobe in her bedroom with surprising strength, cleaning the room of any revealing girlish trinkets (luckily she had very few) as he went. "You will stay here," he hissed. "Under no circumstances will you leave this space, or I will make you regret it, even if I have to come back as a ghost." The door clicked shut, and she was left in the dark. Outside she could hear the boots walking up to their landing… and then continue further up. Once Snape had ascertained that the plumber had legitimate business with the top floor neighbour, he let Hermione out, entirely unapologetic in the face of her annoyance at being shunted away for cover.

She noticed over the following days that he always took precautions to ensure her safety, but remained attentive to his own only to the extent that it affected hers. She had cut her hair, inwardly cringing at the cost but still going to a proper hairdresser to ensure she at least looked presentable. It was at his suggestion, to ensure she looked less instantly recognisable. If he had had the strength he would have taken care of their interaction with the outside world, but he faltered easily. Hermione worried about him. She remembered how close to death Mr Weasley had been before he got to St. Mungo's, and she had really believed she saw Snape die in front of her in the Shrieking Shack. He had given her some tantalising glimpses of the potions he had used to heal himself. She thought he may well have returned to his full strength, had he had access to magical remedies instead of Muggle medicines from Boots and his own, non-magical brews, but as it was he was struggling.

To get him to accept Muggle medical attention turned out to be a monumental effort. They were hampered by Snape's insistence on covering up what actually happened, while Hermione demanded that he at least was submitted to a thorough examination. She almost had to resort to tears to get him to the GP down the road, pointing out that he was the only person in the world right now who cared if she lived or died, and that she would prefer him alive, thank you very much. If he didn't give a toss about his continued existence, then she would pick and she chose that he'd go on living. He had better get his arse down to the surgery or she would make his life a living hell, and then he would have the worst of both ways. With some Muggle prescriptions, obtained with barefaced lies and much Snape-ish intimidation of the harassed GP who only wanted to move on to the next patient, his health started slowly improving.

One day in late June Hermione came home glowing with pleasure, and unpacked a prepaid mobile phone she had purchased. "Now we can write letters with our telephone number, sir, and people can ring us without knowing where we are!" She had become more paranoid after he told her about the Squibs that had infiltrated the Muggle government and civil service on Voldemort's behalf. They were too few to provide detailed intelligence, and Voldemort despised them by default as a source of information, but their existence meant that any letter to the Muggle Prime Minister could potentially land them in hot water. It had been Hermione's idea to write to the Muggle minister after seeing him on television, and recalling Kingsley Shacklebolt appearing alongside him a few years ago, but she had reluctantly agreed that it would be unwise.

They duly dispatched a number of letters, saying that she was a friend of Justin's (or Kingsley's), and could they please get in touch on the mobile number provided as she was anxious about news about the disturbance at their old school? Snape had reminded her that no one knew she was with him, so there was no need to give away that particular bit of information. He maintained that they were far more likely to get in touch with her rather than him, and she had to concede that point.

* * *

"I think I would like to study psychology… if my magic doesn't come back." she said quietly one night while having a cup of tea and watching East Enders, which had turned out to be Snape's guilty Muggle pleasure. "If there is anything the wizarding world desperately needs, it's a few good psychiatrists and counsellors."

"St. Mungo's is full to the rafters of Healers, so I doubt the necessity to import Muggle theories, oftentimes scientifically unsound."

"It's all well and good to have someone remove the antlers suddenly sprouting from your forehead, but how about finding out why they're there in the first place?"

"I find it usually stems from the fact that the person beneath them is a dunderhead."

"And after the war," she went on, seemingly disregarding his comments but quirking her lips despite herself, "there will be so much grief and loss… and people will be expected to get through with a stiff upper lip alone. It won't be enough. Not this time, unless we want to repeat the same ting over and over again." She fell silent, pretending to be oblivious to the glowering from the poster boy for repression next to her. She thought of the lost boys who had made their home at Hogwarts; she knew of so many, only after her short six years there.

Harry, Snape, Neville and Tom Riddle. How many more were there, and what about the girls? Remembering Luna's wistful smile she wondered how many students could see the thestrals, and if anything was done to help them. Not for the first time, she would have torn into Dumbledore with a vengeance if he had been there, for leaving the students under his care to fend for themselves. Like Harry had with the Dursleys, even when the Headmaster must have known exactly what sort of home he'd handed Harry over to. She thought of young Severus Snape, obviously neglected at home and bullied by the Marauders, and her heart ached for him. To hell with it, she thought, and stretched out her hand to grab his. He let her sit like that for several minutes before getting out of his chair and breaking their contact, to her astonishment.

* * *

"If Harry is alive..." she said another evening. She bravely put aside her despair that it might not be so, and concentrated on her efforts to persuade Snape that he wasn't going to spend the rest of his life in Azkaban even if their side had won.

"He will at this moment be pestering to get the new Minister of Magic to award you an Order of Merlin. First Class. I do know Harry, sir, and he will be horrified to have misjudged you so. He probably thinks you're dead, so it will be even more important for him to clear your name and have your contributions recognised. You mightn't believe me, but Harry can't stand injustice."

"Would Mr Potter not be reasonably expected to expend his excess energy to find you, Miss Granger?"

"You will still be on his mind. I heard him, before we were hit by that curse, and he won't forget about what you've done. We already agreed that to find us using magical means will be almost impossible, so he should have plenty of spare time in between giving interviews to the _Daily Prophet_ and seeing Ginny." She would not entertain the thought that he might be lying in the cold ground instead.

Snape appeared entirely unconvinced.

"Now take Draco Malfoy, for example." She didn't know how she could get him to see Harry as himself and not his father, but she would do it or die trying, unless Voldemort got to her first.

"Surely you know that he has been nothing but an utter toe-rag towards me since we first met." Her slapping him in third year had probably been the pinnacle of their relationship.

"He has called me Mu-… less flattering things more times than I can remember." She remembered Snape's history with Lily Potter, and steered clear of the slur at the last minute. His face still contracted as if someone had hit him, and she mentally kicked herself. She needed him to focus on what she was telling him. "He didn't exactly cover himself with glory recently either, even though he didn't sell us out to Voldemort at Malfoy Manor." She unconsciously touched the scar on her arm that spelled out what the Malfoys thought about her. Yet she was alive and Bellatrix was dead. Take that, you bitch.

"Despite all that, I acknowledge that there may be something good in him, since Dumbledore and you both seem to think he is worth saving."

"Your point being?"

"If you were willing to do the same for Harry, you would find that he is loyal, modest and kind."

"I know Mr Potter for seven years, and I would not concur with your assessment. You are clearly biased. The boy is exactly like his father!" He got the familiar light in his eyes when speaking about Harry; almost maniac. She steeled herself for what she was about to do. It was below the belt, but based on her observations it might work.

"Are you much like your father, sir?"

"No!" The answer shot out like a bullet from a gun, loud in the quiet room. From the agitation in his face she could tell he was off balance, and probably wouldn't have replied if he had been in better control of himself.

"Harry isn't either. He was living in the cupboard under the stairs of his horrible aunt and uncle's house before he came to Hogwarts, for God's sake! He had no idea who his parents were or how they died before Hagrid told him, and he didn't even know about magic! James Potter seems to have been a spoiled Pureblood prat from what I have heard of him, before he grew up. He seems to have treated you abominably and got away with it too. That doesn't mean that Harry is the same." He stared at her, his mouth hanging slightly open, before he shut it with a snap, glared at her for good measure and busied himself with the _Guardian_ sudoku.

* * *

Hermione had got some textbooks and started preparing for GCSE's in science, chemistry, psychology and biology. Snape had confirmed what she already knew; Hogwarts NEWTs were, with a lot of obfuscation, bureaucracy and elbow grease, convertible to GCSEs in English, maths, PE and science. As she had a rather cursory knowledge of science, thanks to her summer reading over the years rather than having done the actual curriculum, she had decided to take it up even though she strictly speaking didn't have to. Snape had agreed with her assessment that it was better to get a grounding in the subject rather than making up the gaps in her knowledge as she went along, thus confirming that he must have been as much of a swot as she was when he was a student.

Unfortunately Care of Magical Creatures and other more esoteric Hogwarts subjects didn't translate well to the Muggle world, so she would have some ground to make up if she wanted to go to Oxford to study psychology. Snape was surprisingly knowledgeable when it came to physics, organic chemistry and biology, in the areas that they overlapped with Potions. She wondered what he had done during the summers of the years between Voldemort's fall and his return, and wasn't surprised when he let slip that he had attended summer lectures at the University of Edinburgh in the eighties. As Snape slowly let his guard down and started contributing more personal information to their conversations, as they grew more comfortable living in the small space and rubbing against each other, she pieced together bits of his past.

He had a genuine regard for Mrs Malfoy, and seemed to approach Mr Malfoy senior with affection tempered by caution. He was fond of Draco. He appeared to have nothing further to do with the rest of the Death Eaters than what duty dictated, except Selwynn whom he had kept up a scholarly correspondence with until Voldemort brought them into closer contact again. He spoke very little abut the Hogwarts staff. From observing the head table over the years, and seeing her professors around the castle, she thought that he must genuinely have been friendly with Professor McGonagall. They may had traded barbs and insulted the other's house, but now that she knew him better she recognised how he would hide his affection behind sharp words. He had also seemed to exchange more than his usual stiff courtesy with Professor Flitwick, Professor Sprout and the Arithmancy professor, Vector, at Hogwarts, but with the rest of the staff he had stayed icily polite and distant.

It must have hurt to be ostracised by the staff after he killed Dumbledore, and being thought a traitor and a murderer who had waited his time for many long years, happy to have a refuge with them until he could strike where it hurt his friends the most. How hopeless it must have been to endure and even encourage their hatred of him, to cement the position that cost him so dearly. She was no stranger to loneliness, after being on the outs with Harry and Ron so many times over the years, especially in third year over that bloody broom, and she never had many friends before going to Hogwarts. Remembering the glimpses Harry had seen of Snape growing up, being bullied and shunned by his contemporaries, she wondered how many of his reasons for joining the Death Eaters had been related to pure loneliness.

* * *

By necessity they kept a low profile in Huddersfield, and avoided the neighbours. Snape was never one for small talk, but Hermione found that she treasured even fleeting contact with the old woman who lived downstairs, or the apathetic librarian who grew used to seeing her almost every day, book bag full to bursting slung over her shoulder, researching her "special project". Even if she couldn't get rid of the creeping fear of Voldemort's cohorts Apparating in and tearing the quiet lull of a British weekday morning apart with violence, she enjoyed walking around as part of the thin crow in the streets of the less savoury suburb where their flat was situated. This was nothing as alienating as it had been to strike fear into the masses when walking down Diagon Alley Polyjuiced as Bellatrix Lestrange (she still had trouble believing she was finally dead, but Snape had seen it too so it had to be true). She was just one of them, if a little more strange than she seemed on the surface with her scuffed boots and Oxfam dresses.

She resolved that if she ever got the choice, she would keep up with the Muggle world. It would take a lot of work, especially to keep up with new technology (although Snape had mastered his first mobile in a impossibly short space of time). There was simply too many things happening in the Muggle world for wizards to remain ignorant of, outside the Ministry of Magic which Snape had told her monitored the Muggle world closely under normal circumstances. Since Hermione doubted that the Ministry, even pre-Voldemort takeover, could find its own arse successfully this wasn't reassuring. Snape, never quick to heap praise on anyone, was surprisingly willing to admit that the Ministry contained some very intelligent witches and wizards, and put most of the blame for its many cock-ups on management rather than the workers. The old boy network of Purebloods (and Slytherins, she teased him) ensured that there always was a place for the family idiot, and that place was often middle management at the Ministry. "I can just see it," she said, "Gregory Goyle with his feet on his desk turning down the umpteenth request to buy a computer because he can't see the point of it! You couldn't have enjoyed teaching him more than even the thickest Gryffindor, sir, no way!" "He was better than you, anyway," he retorted in defence of his Slytherin. "I didn't need to live in fear of his hand getting permanently stuck in the air, did I?"

It turned out that Snape, too, had struggled with the problems of having a foot in each world, magical and Muggle. It had been easier in previous centuries, when the pace of Muggle progress was slower and the world less bureaucratic. These days, there were very few points where the Muggle and wizarding worlds intersected, and even in peacetime relatively few wizards flitted between them. Generally they would pick the wizarding world, and gradually ties to the Muggle world would wither, especially as they lived longer than Muggle friends and family. Squibs either found a niche in the wizarding world, or decided that they would be better off joining the majority. There were a few exceptions, like Voldemort's high-level moles, but they had ascertained that most trustworthy Squibs Snape knew of had retained sufficient exposure to the wizarding world to go into hiding.

* * *

**A/N:**

In case you don't live in Britain, Boots is a Muggle pharmacy chain. East Enders is a British soap that has been running four days a week for the last twenty five years or so. It's a bit naff, but addictive...


	10. In Which They Make Progress

It had been niggling at the back of her mind for quite some time. She knew Ron had once mentioned that one of his relatives lived as a Muggle, with some prosaic occupation. Ron had also said that the Weasleys never talked about him, which unfortunately had turned out to be true as she never heard him mentioned again. The unfortunate cousin's profession came to her one day in July, as she was thinking of nothing in particular while drying the dishes. Snape, who could not abide the kitchen in any state other than perfectly clean or in use, was doing the wash up.

"He's an accountant!" she burst out. Snape didn't seem to deem the revelation worthy a pause in the proceedings, but angled his head towards her, waiting for her to continue. "Ron's cousin, sir, remember I told you about him when we were doing the mind map?" While he secretly admired her organisational skills, he refused to call the contraption covering one wall of the living room with all the wizards and Squibs they could recall with any Muggle connections anything quite so… perky.

Snape was friendly enough with Mr Weasley since he had brewed potions to help him recover after being attacked by Nagini, and had maintained a state of careful neutrality with Mrs Weasley (he would never admit it, but he had rather admired the woman's fortitude since the first time he had to teach the twins), but he had not been in a position to contribute any more information on the elusive cousin.

"Accountants are just like dentists, they have to be accredited and have professional organisations, and we could probably find him at the library!" Her face had lit up and she was aglow with triumph and hope, and he couldn't help smiling back at her excitement. They stood in the small kitchen galley smiling together, like they were encapsulated in a shimmering bubble from the suds in the sink. The bubble popped, and the moment was over.

* * *

Hermione had trained herself not to get too excited with each new prospect; she had dashed off to the library with hopes running high too many times only to return abashed. Snape was uncharacteristically sympathetic at those times, refraining from any jibes and even going to the extent of quietly making her a cup of tea to comfort her. When the clue had been particularly promising and she was bitterly disappointed he brought out the shortbread too, and riled her up with some disparaging remarks about one of her favourite magical theorists, which begged to be refuted.

This time, she managed to contain her excitement until she sat down at her usual table with a small mountain made out of member directories from the six English accountancy bodies. Snape had reminded her that Mrs Weasley's maiden name was Prewett, so she had two surnames to check.

At teatime, as she had listed two hundred and forty seven names to find phone numbers for, her enthusiasm finally died completely. Snape was still too weak to help her, having had a setback when he tried to sneak out of the flat behind her back to do God knows what a few days ago. He had borne the full brunt of her wrath once he had been propped up against his pillow and taken his multitude of medications. He seemed to bear it patiently, probably realizing how scared she'd been when she had come back bustling with shopping bags from the supermarket on the way home, and found him almost unconscious and deathly pale on the bottom landing of the stairs, after he had slipped all the way down. He was amazingly tolerant with her outbursts, but never betrayed if he had yet realised that Hermione showed her care by bossing around those who were dear to her, or if he thought her distress came from a natural fear of losing her only ally.

Snape was much better at phoning leads than she was, wielding his voice like a weapon to cajole or intimidate his target. Hermione took notes while he talked, and tried to learn from his ability to twist the conversation to extract the information he wanted. It was impossible to know if the target was lying, which they well might be if they really did have relations in the wizarding world who could warn them what was afoot, but all they could do was to try. Trying out their carefully constructed cover stories on name after name appeared to narrow down their long list worryingly quickly.

Weeks ago they had decided that if one of them had to reveal their true identities to someone it had better be Hermione, since Snape was adamant that no one in the wizarding world would give him the time of the day. Hermione didn't necessarily concur, but had to admit that since they had no idea of what public opinion of Snape would be, even had they won, it made more sense for her to reveal herself. With any luck, a victorious Voldemort would be no wiser to Snape's survival, and it would be most unwise to alert him to it. He would certainly have his minions searching for her in any case, so she could hardly make things worse.

So Snape would do most of the exploratory phone calls, and Hermione would follow up with a second call. So far they had only deemed it worthwhile to follow up twelve times, and they had all been failures. They might have got a better success rate in person, but that was too risky until they were certain it was worth the exposure and expense to turn up at someone's doorstep.

Using the car crash gambit - unconscious victim at the Fazakerley hospital in Liverpool, no way of contacting family so he was the nearest relative they could get hold of to try and trace them, terribly sorry to disturb - Snape spoke to Gareth Prewett, chartered management accountant and resident of Gerrards Cross, Buckinghamshire. He must have done alright for himself, Snape had remarked when seeing the address. As usual with the Prewett-Weasley list, Snape described Mrs Weasley's appearance and named her as the victim, and waited on the reaction. Mr Prewett was apparently not easily rattled, as his only response was "Hold on, give me a moment." He came back to the phone after a few, tense minutes on the other side of the phone in the small sitting room in Huddersfield.

"I can have a look around and see if I can find any contact details for that side of the family. We're not really in touch, but I'll do what I can. Where are you calling from again?" Snape gave him the details of some unsuspecting administrator at the hospital, and hung up. He put the phone down and turned around to face Hermione, who was sitting at the rickety kitchen table carefully transcribing the call in case they needed to review it later.

"It appears that you have a phone call to make, Miss Granger." It was almost like the Horcrux hunt again, the familiar elation of finally making a breakthrough, only this time there was no twisted fragment of Voldemort's soul at the end of it. Hopefully, anyway, Hermione corrected herself as she swallowed and dug her own mobile out of her bag. She looked intently into Snape's eyes as she listened to the phone ringing in Buckinghamshire, picking up the small clues that he also was on tenterhooks for what they would find out. His thin lips were pressed together, he had shaken his hair out of his face and he met her gaze with his deep, dark eyes, willing her to succeed.

"Hello, Mr Prewett. I'm sorry for disturbing you. My name is Hermione Granger, and I'm a close friend of your magical relations, the Weasleys. I'm trying to contact them -" He cut in sharply, annoyed:

"Molly isn't really in hospital, is she?" Success! She wanted to hug Snape, but settled for smiling like her cheeks would split and grasping his hand, as he had come to sit down opposite her.

"No, she's not, Mr Prewett. I'm sorry for lying to you, but there has been some upsets in the magical world recently, and – " He cut in again.

"Upsets! Is that what you call it these days?! I had to into hiding because of that bloody war of yours! I have a practice you know, I can't just disappear! Upsets!" he said the last word with revulsion. Hermione decided she wasn't very anxious to get to know Mr Prewett in person. He reminded her about Percy when something had upset his exam revision schedule.

"I'm very sorry you have been inconvenienced, Mr Prewett. You're obviously an important man." She hadn't been in the same house as Percy the Fusspot for three years for nothing. Snape raised one sardonic eyebrow at her and she almost laughed out loud, but she managed to keep her composure.

"I do hope everything is back to normal now?" she asked. He had been somewhat mollified, she could tell by the tone of his voice when he answered.

"Yes, yes, back home now and everything. I told them years ago I wanted nothing to do with them, a clean break, but they always creep out of the woodwork at the least opportune moment. And not a clue about how the rest of the world works either, completely at sea with modern life. I thought I'd have to kick Molly's husband out of my study before he took my computer apart," he whined, and Hermione knew he could go on for days if she let him, if he was anything like Percy with a grievance.

"Well, Mr Prewett," she cut him off, "I wonder if you could tell me who won the war?" Her voice came out as a squeak at the last word, and she grabbed Snape's hand harder for support and hung onto it for dear life. They had both fought and suffered and lived in the shadow of this war for most of their lives. It had shaped their characters and moulded their lives, towering over them even in peacetime. And now it was over. Snape was completely immobile, spine ramrod straight and his eyes glittering strangely.

"Why, don't you know? It was that boy, whatever they call him – the boy who lived! So if you're a friend of Molly's I guess it was your side then," he chuckled jovially, completely unaware of the reaction on the other side of the phone. Hermione broke down in two heaving sobs of relief before she got herself under control again, and she thought she had seen a single tear running down Snape's cheek as he almost crushed her hand in return.

"Did Harry- did the boy survive then?"

"Oh yes, he's plastered all over the Daily Prophet now. Astonishing. Thirty years on, and it's still the same bloody rag." Mr Prewett was positively chatty now.

"Mr Prewett, I – I was in the war, and then I got separated from my friends. I don't think they know what happened to me, so I would be very grateful if you could contact them and let them know I'm alive. Please." If he was anything like Percy he would be helpful, she told herself – Percy could never resist lending a hand to prove how useful he was.

"Oh, you must be the missing girl then! Saw posters of you everywhere, big curly head of hair on you, is there?" She almost giggled, and the corner of Snape's mouth twitched.

"Yes, that would be me."

"Alright then, I suppose I can get in touch with them. You didn't look very old, guess you can use a hand to get back to your lot."

"Thank you, Mr Prewett, thank you so much!" She was teary-eyed with relief.

"Never call me again though. I really don't want to be mixed up with all that again. I have a business to run, you know, I can't have random wizards turning up at the office."

"Of course not, I never would had disturbed you if it hadn't been an emergency. Truly, Mr Prewett, I promise never to contact you again." It was an easy promise – she knew Snape would come after him if he didn't deliver the goods, and she reckoned Snape could tear through the average accountant in four seconds flat.

"Right, then. Now, here's what I'll do for you – I'll pass on a message for you, and then it's nothing to do with me anymore." She ended up just passing on the message that she was alive, and would someone please call her on her mobile number? She hoped Ron had learned how to use a phone since Third year. Honestly; Muggle Studies had been introduced for people like him!

It was almost too much to take in for Hermione – they had won the war, and Harry was alive!

A tight knot of sorrow had dissolved in Snape's chest, as he realised that the last bit of Lily hadn't died with Potter after all. He hadn't noticed he had been carrying it with him since he had heard that Potter had fallen, and he was silent for a few minutes, struggling to recover his balance. He rolled up his sleeve and stared at his Dark Mark, trying to comprehend that the man who had branded him with it finally was dead. The Mark was still there, looking the same as always.

For Hermione, the relief of Harry being alive was almost as great as Voldemort finally being vanquished. She had seen him so briefly after he had emerged in the Great Hall, and she had been painfully aware that there were no guarantees that he would pull through even if he managed to bring down Voldemort.

She had jotted down a tally of who was standing and who had fallen in the battle together with Snape early on, but there was no knowing what had happened after their exit. Almost everyone she loved in the world had been in that room, and soon she was about to find out who had walked out of it alive.

It was agony to wait for the phone to ring. It was heaven after the long months without answers, but she would have exploded had Snape not been there to calm her down. They played fast and furious games of Scrabble for hours before trying to get some rest. Sleep was out of the question. They had called Mr Prewett in the evening; he had cautioned them that it might be a few days before they heard anything, but none of them were willing to entertain the prospect of waiting that long. After a long, uneasy night with Radio 4 on in the background, her jaunty ringtone (she had picked to tease Snape, who hated anything more exotic than the Nokia tone and had been incredulous when he found out about novelty ringtones) jolted them fully awake. Hermione swallowed the butterflies in her stomach and picked the phone up. "Hello?"

"HERMIONE! Is that really you?!" Harry's voice shouted in her ear.

"Harry! Oh, Harry, I'm so happy it's you! Is Ron alright?" She heard a scuffle, and the she heard Ron's voice:

"Oi! It's my turn! HERMIONE!"

"Ron! You really don't have to shout, you know! Thank Merlin you're OK!"

After establishing that she was safe and sound, he in return confirmed that the only casualty after Hermione's premature exit from the battle had been Voldemort. Harry took over, and went through a quick but emotional rundown of the killed and injured participants of the battle. Snape and Hermione listened to Harry's description of the final minute of the conflict and its aftermath, heads bunched together around Hermione's cheap Nokia.

"Harry, stop." She cut in when he was moving on to how Kingsley was Acting Minister of Magic and was working day and night to rebuild the shattered wizarding world.

"You have to listen to me now, and promise you won't lose your temper. Actually, get Ron to move away a bit so he can't hear me, you know how he gets." Snape raised both eyebrows at this, reminding her of her insistence that Harry would be Snape's advocate from now on. He hadn't believed her, in any case. Hermione was almost completely sure she knew how Harry would react. Almost. Harry had confirmed that the Order knew that she had been hit by a curse from Mulciber, and disappeared. Seemingly, no one had noticed Snape next to her before he disappeared, although she would later find out that several Order members had seen a masked figure fight on their side in the battle.

"Professor Snape survived, Harry." There was silence on the other side of the phone. Ever the Gryffindor, she didn't let the imminent prospect of failure deter her from pursuing her chosen course of action.

"He's actually here with me; he was hit by the same curse as me. He's a bit weak," Snape momentarily looked like revealing his weaknesses to Potter would result in thoroughly unpleasant consequences for Hermione, "but he's OK."

There was silence.

"Harry? Harry, please say something!"

"Hello?"

"Ron! What's going on?"

"You bloody well tell me! What did you say to Harry? He's gone completely quiet-"

"Hermione!" Harry was back. "Is it true?"

"Yes, of course it's true, do you think I'm making it up?" She was quickly getting exasperated, and Snape looked like he would rather be anywhere else than listening to the Dream Team exchanging idiocies.

"I can't believe it. I thought-"

"Well, bear in mind he's right here when you say what you were thinking, will you?"

"Professor Snape?" She elbowed him until he took the phone and corrected Harry:

"Mr Snape. If you please." There was stunned silence on Harry's end, until he broke into mixed apologies, expressions of elation of Snape's survival and promises of coming to get them as soon as possible. Hermione looked smug when Snape handed back the phone to her to get the details ironed out.


	11. In Which They Leave Huddersfield

**A/N:**

Next update will be posted on Wednesday. Disclaimer: I don't make any money on this, and JK Rowling owns all the characters.

* * *

So this was it, then. It had been surprisingly… pleasant to spend more than two months being coped up with Miss Granger in close quarters, with her trying to boss him around or argue the merits of crushing Fluxweed roots with the back of your knife or with a mortar. He had spent so much time with people he despised, or former colleagues who now feared and hated him, that it was an unimaginable luxury to have someone who was happy to see him every day.

He would never forget, as long as he lived, how she had burst into tears and hugged him when she saw that he was alive on the front steps of Spinner's End. He had been expecting either a gruesome death by torture or a lynch mob, and couldn't have come up with a single soul who would be happy to see him.

Now that he wasn't the only person she had any longer, she would be absorbed by her own family and friends and he wouldn't see her anymore. He knew enough about her to realise that her unswerving loyalty was as much part of her as her inquisitiveness was. She wouldn't cast him off completely. No doubt she would canvas Shacklebolt on his behalf, should justice not be done in her opinion. He could well be facing charges before the Wizengamot for his activities during the war. He knew he didn't deserve to be alive, and he definitely didn't deserve her friendship. What would she want with her former Potions teacher, anyway? He would rather die than showing any weakness to her. Quite literally.

* * *

So this was it, then. She knew that he would rather die than showing any weakness to her, like a desire to remain in contact with her, so it would be up to her to ensure that they would stay friends. She had no intention on giving up on him. He was a mystery wrapped in an enigma, hidden in a surly shell that disguised all the amazing things about him. She still wasn't sure if he really was persuaded that he deserved to be alive and happy, and it broke her heart that he, who had done so much in the war, would think so little of himself. Even when she was an irritating First year who got into danger despite his best efforts, he had kept her safe to the best of his abilities, and he had never stopped. It hadn't been lost on her that at any hint of danger he had positioned himself to protect her first. She hadn't allowed it without protest once she had spotted the pattern, but he would brook no opposition.

Well, Hermione Granger didn't give up all that easily either, and she was going to continue to be his friend when they got back or die trying. She only hoped he'd get reconciled to the idea before he got his magic back; she found him difficult enough to deal with without having to worry about getting hexed as well.

* * *

From the minute Harry, Ron, Tonks, George, Ginny and Mrs Weasley set foot in the apartment, chaos erupted. Too many people jammed into the small space, spilling over onto the landings in the staircase, and all shouting to be heard.

"Oi! Hermione! Are you in here?" was the first notice Snape and Hermione got of the arrival of the rescue mission. Neither of them had been able to settle down to do anything properly since Hermione spoke to Mr Prewett last night, and they were both hanging on to the last thread of their nerves. Hermione was giddy with anticipation, but clamped it down not to set Snape's nerves on edge. He would have to come face to face with Harry Potter, whose mere presence seemed to annoy him at the best of times, after sharing his memories as he laid dying.

Hermione still didn't know exactly what was in the memories, and she doubted she ever would, but Snape had told her enough to understand that they had been intensely personal and contained the most important, and most painful, moments of his life. She had heard enough from Harry at the battle to realise that the memories must contain the truth of Snape's relationship with Lily Evans before she got married, and had wondered how Harry would approach Snape now. He was always so eager to find out about his parents, and here was Snape, who not only grew up with his mother, but also had loved her ever since. She had a strong suspicion that Snape would find himself with two new Gryffindor friends, not one, and almost looked forward to seeing his reaction when he realised that Harry Potter had no intention of leaving him alone again.

The cacophony showed no signs of abating. They all hugged Hermione, passing her around like a parcel while greeting Snape at a respectful distance. Had he been another sort of man he might have been touched by the way she clung to her boys, eyes full of tears of relief, he told himself. Thankfully he wasn't moved by the Gryffindor tendency to wear one's heart on one's sleeve.

Ginny and Tonks had to break Hermione loose from the three-way hug she was locked into to get a chance to look at her, exclaiming at the loss of her long hair and how good it was to finally see her. Mrs Weasley treated her like one of her own, and Snape was reminded of the loss of Fred Weasley. George had some of his usual exuberance, but it seemed slightly forced, except when it was his turn to verify that Hermione was safe and unharmed.

Someone cleared his throat at his elbow. Damnation, it was Potter.

"I would just like to say, sir, how glad I am that you survived. We have a crack team assembled to make sure that you get the best medical care possible, and the Order has called a meeting to come up with a strategy for how to deal with the aftereffects of the curse the two of you were hit with."

He would have to do it, and he would have to look him in the eyes while he did.

"Thank you, Potter," he said gravely. Harry looked astonished. After a moment to absorb this unexpected gratitude he looked around to ensure that that no one was listening, and then showed Snape the lining of his anorak, where a bottle was sticking up.

"I also have something that's yours. Thank you, sir. None of us would be here without what you did. Er, I haven't let anyone else see them, except I had to give Kingsley a very abbreviated story so he would give you a pardon for any crimes you may have committed. It's for your whole life, so I hope you didn't go shoplifting or anything after Voldemort was defeated the first time…"

"Potter." It was enough to put an end to his ramblings. "I will take that. Thank you." Snape pocketed the bottle himself, his past nestling awkwardly in his back pocket. "So my name is cleared and I can go about my business?" It was beyond his wildest expectations. Hell, to be alive at the end of it was more than he had ever expected.

"That's right, sir, and you'll be getting an Order of Merlin too. First class, of course."

Snape had always dreamed of being really, truly accepted for who he was, and for a long time an Order of Merlin had been the tangible symbol of that acceptance, on behalf of the whole Wizarding world. That had been one of the reasons why he had been so elated at the prospect of capturing Sirius Black and gaining one in the bargain more than four years ago. It had seemed to him as if it could finally lay some of his demons to rest.

The intervening years had been harder than even his worst imaginings. He had always suspected that Voldemort would be back one day, and that his own most likely end would be gruesome, long and painful. He hadn't imagined that he would have to forsake almost all of the people he had any sort of care for, and give up his beloved Hogwarts for Death Eaters to run roughshod over it. And now… he hadn't done it to be _rewarded_, but to be recognised in front of everyone who thought he was a traitor instead of being sent to Azkaban, and with a handsome stipend to live on while he found his feet… For once in his life, Potter had Exceeded Expectations. And without Miss Granger doing the thinking for him either.

He was spared from having to come up with a response when Hermione's shrill voice struck a discordant note to the joyous reunion.

"I won't go without him! You can wipe that scowl right off your face, Ronald Weasley, because I won't change my mind about this." He looked over to the tangle of witches and Weasleys, and saw Ronald Weasley's face painted an unbecoming red. He really shouldn't lose his fuse so easily if that was the result.

"I don't give a shit, Hermione!" he yelled, oblivious to his mother's disapproval. "I thought you were kidnapped or dead for more than two months, and now you won't come with us because of Snape?" Everyone was watching them now.

"I'm not leaving him here alone!" she cried, furious. "You should be ashamed of yourself for suggesting it!" With ease borne of long habit, Harry stepped in to diffuse the situation. Had he not been busy with Snape, needing his wits about him when talking to him for the first time while knowing the full truth, he would have done it sooner. Ron wasn't exactly rational on the topic of Snape yet.

"He can stay with me at Grimmauld Place. Kreacher can easily manage two people," Harry offered.

Eventually four of them ended up at Grimmauld; Snape and the Golden Trio. The protections laid on the house by Mad-Eye against Snape were keyed to his magical signature, so he could enter without any dire consequences. Hermione didn't want to leave either Harry or Ron, so this was deemed to be the best solution – especially considering that the Burrow already was bursting at the seams.

Mrs Weasley had been surprisingly warm towards Snape, concerned with the state of his health and how he had been misjudged by the Order. As she laid in her old bed, Hermione wondered if any of it was due to the romantic figure he cut; the dark, brooding hero who remained faithful to the memory of his dead love, who had spurned him for another man- and then admonished herself for thinking like the _Daily Prophet_. But was that indicative of the way the general female population would see him? He might find himself inundated with fans, like Lockhart, one of these days. She really hoped it would take him a while to get his magic back in that case. And that she'd be around to see it.

* * *

An Order meeting was held at Grimmauld Place the next day. Snape had got his reunions with his friends from Hogwarts over with in private first. It had cut Minerva to the quick to realise the true position he had been in, while she had been leading the campaign to ensure his life was as full of petty irritations as humanely possible in the last year, and he ended up having to pat her back awkwardly trying to stem the flow of her tears. As she opened the Order meeting she had recovered her usual asperity.

"The capture of the remaining Death Eaters at large is going smoothly, especially now that we have Severus back as a source of intelligence that they are unaware of." There was grim satisfaction on the faces of most Order members at the reminder, and Tonks looked especially pleased, as she was in charge of the Auror operation. "His return is also well-timed for the War Trials; I imagine Griselda Marchbanks will be in touch soon, Severus. The trials are due to start in a few months, so she will be looking for any information you may have that could be relevant to her investigations." He nodded; not betraying that he was celebrating the chance to ensure justice was meted for some of the atrocities he'd seen over the years with mental whooping and cheering. Some nights he'd had to cling to the belief that they all would have to pay for what they had done eventually, to keep going. He might have escaped what was due to him in this life, but he was going to do his utmost to ensure that the bastards who had enjoyed what they did got exactly what they deserved.

Minerva looked around the room. "I hardly need to emphasise the importance of keeping Severus' return among us secret." The younger generation had been let in for the occasion, so the proportion of Weasleys was rather higher than usual. Snape hadn't expected to, but he suddenly felt like he belonged here again. He could still contribute with something; he held valuable information, and he had made his peace with his friends. The next item on the agenda shattered his brief moment of content.

"Then there is the curse. Since both Severus and Miss Granger are more vulnerable than usual to attacks, it's also crucial that you don't tell anyone about Miss Granger's lack of magic. We can't afford any hint of it leaking out." Snape was by no means confident that it was possible to regain what was lost, and endured the pitying glances coming his way under duress.

"We will do anything in our power to lift the curse on you two." Minerva said, looking so fierce that the curse should duck and hide for cover if it had any sense. "Since our resident expect on the Dark Arts is Severus himself, I suggest that we aid him with whatever research he wants to carry out. Miss Granger, I assume it's a foregone conclusion that you will help him?" Hermione felt a wave of affection towards her old Head of House. Of course she wanted to work with Snape to break the curse, and if she could do it on the orders of the head of the Order of the Phoenix he would put up a minimum of fuss about it. Now they only needed to find a way to lift a curse they had barely heard of in its original form, after it had been modified by one of the foremost Dark Arts practitioners Snape had ever met. Life was almost back to normal again.

* * *

Hermione had failed to consider that Ron, the Pig-Headed was also Ron, the Master Chess Strategist and the impact that would have on his opinion of Snape.

Paired with his new ability to think things through once he calmed down (after he blew his top off), this resulted in a restrained Ron approaching her a few days later. She was going through back issues of the _Daily Prophe_t to tell her that he did realise that Snape had been instrumental for them to win the war.

"But so help me God, Hermione, if you expect me to like the Greasy Git now too! He might be a hero, but he can be an utter bastard as well for no reason and you know it." He looked at her resolutely, steeling himself for the promise he was going to give. "I won't give you any grief over being friends with him anymore, and I'm sorry for going apeshit on you the other day, but I can't pretend I'm happy about it."

"Oh, Ron!"

"And I won't promise not to slag you about it either, when you think you're sneaking off to see him," he continued, wanting to be make a clean chest of it.

"Ron, just... shut up now, will you!" She hugged him to stop him talking, and because it felt so good that everything was fine between them again. She could get used to this new, mature Ron.


	12. In Which They Return To Malfoy Manor

The best source of information on the Dark Arts in the country in its present state unsurprisingly turned out to be Malfoy Manor. Normally it would have been the the Department of Mysteries, but no one had yet figured out a way to tell the staff of that the war had ended, after the entire department had disappeared from the Ministry of Magic sometime during the last year.

Naturally, Hermione thought bitterly, as she clung to Harry to Apparate Side-Along with him into the Apparition Parlour at the Manor. Of course the stuck-up prats would have an Apparition Parlour too. It was a relief to have Harry with her; he had promised to stay with her all day, every day, as long as it took, so she could leave whenever she liked and not be dependent on the Malfoys to let her get back out. Snape had thought about complaining for form's sake, and then taken one look at Hermione screwing up her courage by telling herself that Bellatrix was dead and Lucius Malfoy in Azkaban "assisting the Aurors with their inquiries", and desisted. He knew what had happened the only time she'd been at Malfoy Manor before, and he desperately wished there was something he could do to make things easier on her.

Ronald Weasley had been dispatched to clear her path at the manor to make sure she came nowhere near the Drawing Room, and that Draco and Narcissa Malfoy would stay out of her sight. Charlie Weasley tagged along as well to bring Snape along on a Side-Along Apparition and defuse the tension of the proceedings somewhat. As always, there was one more Weasley than you had expected (he had spent his entire teaching career teaching Weasleys, so he would know). Ginny had decided to come along too, in case Hermione needed some female support, but mostly to snog Harry while he was kicking his feet waiting for Snape and Hermione to finish for the day.

* * *

A few weeks after their tense first visit, Snape had slipped out to see Mrs Malfoy as the day came to a close. He had waited until they had settled into a daily routine and Hermione felt almost safe at the Manor before he brought it up. Their entourage had tapered off one by one as they got settled in and nothing worse than paper cuts marred their progress, or rather lack thereof. The fireplace in the library had been connected to the Floo network and warded to only allow connections with the Burrow, Grimmauld Place and Spinner's End, so they could leave easily and at their own instigation. Hermione relaxed minutely after every day that went past without incidence, and after the first week she had learned to actually appreciate the beauty of the Malfoy library; the Malfoy crest shining proudly in the late summer sunlight filtered through the stained glass windows, walls filled of row after row with rare books, emblazoned with the family motto "Sanctimonia Vincet Semper", the subtle gleam from the lovingly tended furniture. Apparently Draco Malfoy had volunteered to scan whatever books they wanted to read for any harmful spells, and remove them under the supervision of a Ministry official, before they started working the next day.

She was standing on the top step of the ladder she had to use to reach the upper shelves, preparing her selection of books to get started on the following week. It was much later than her usual time, but it was Thursday and they had agreed to give themselves the weekend off. Snape needed to meet with Griselda Marchbanks to discuss his testimony, and Hermione was really looking forward to spending some time at the Burrow, enjoying the last few days of August sunshine. As much as she loved research, she could really do with some time off, just living.

A side door creaked open, and someone drew a sharp breath as they saw her things strewn all over on the magnificent mahogany table in the middle of the room.

"Fuck!" Draco Malfoy exclaimed.

"Never heard you use Muggle profanities before, Malfoy." Hermione offered from her position above him, perched on the stepladder. Her heart was beating erratically, but she wasn't really frightened. She had faced worse things. With her wand, her mind treacherously reminded her.

"I thought you had left for the day!" he said, backing away from her, hands in the air. "Look, I'll put my wand here." True to his word, he placed it next to her notebook and faced her unarmed. So he had definitely changed, then.

"Uncle Severus will kill me, he made me swear I wouldn't come in here until you were gone for the day," he continued.

"It's alright, you didn't do anything." He hadn't done anything, and he was still hanging around. What the hell did he want? Suddenly she was disgusted with herself. They had been through so much; maybe not together, strictly speaking, but at the same time. How could she demand that he would face up to this brave new world if she wasn't willing to move on?

"Listen, Malfoy, I don't give a shit about the past. I'm glad you're alive and unharmed, for what that's worth, and… Look, I am grateful that you didn't tell anyone who we were when we were captured by the Snatchers."

Damn it! Here he was, screwing up his courage to apologise, and was pipped to the post by Hermione Granger, as always.

"So maybe the world won't explode if we're in the same room and aren't at each others' throats," she added. He looked taken aback for a second, making him look younger, like she remembered him in First year, and then he schooled his face into the smooth mask she was used too.

"Granger, since you're here and I'll get a bollocking from Uncle Severus in either case…" He swallowed, suddenly looking nervous. She hadn't seen him looking nervous since their OWLs. "I apologise for my previous conduct towards you. And for what it's worth… I'm really bloody happy your side won."

"I accept your apology, Malfoy. And I respect you for caring enough to make it." They looked at each other, both of them stiff and formal, almost in wonder at what just had passed. If Snape hadn't vouched for him, she wouldn't have bothered making her next overture. She found out years later that he wouldn't have responded had he not been aware, in an oblique Slytherin way, that Snape held her in high esteem. In light of his impossibly high standards that was a ringing endorsement.

"So why are you suddenly cursing in Muggle?" Ron sometimes did too, but his family environment had been rather more accepting of Muggle influences, and he had Muggleborn friends, unlike Malfoy.

"The Ministry suggested I watch those Muggle fillum things, so I guess I picked up some words from them." This sounded suspiciously like an olive branch. Besides, she was unbearably curious now.

"I've heard about them. What have you seen so far?"

His face lit up. "This Italian one, Life is Beautiful. Titanic, that was brilliant! It's about this ship…"

"I know, it's pretty famous in the Muggle world."

"Is it? Then there was Schultz's List, I think, and Star Wars… I liked them too. Almost like magic, this thing they have-" She couldn't help laughing.

"I know, Malfoy! It's like the Tales of Beedle the Bard, almost every Muggle has seen Star Wars!"

He suddenly remembered who she was, and she remembered where they were, and they both went rather hurriedly about their business.

* * *

Malfoy must have reported back to his mother, because a carefully worded invitation to take tea with her found its way to Hermione through Snape. She eyed him suspiciously. "Why on earth would she want to have tea with me?" He weighed his words carefully, knowing that Narcissa had much more to gain from having tea with Hermione Granger than the other way around, in the eyes of the world.

However, he knew Narcissa Malfoy, and the fact that Hermione hadn't thrown Draco's apology back in his face counted almost as much as her being part of the Golden Trio. Narcissa had finally seen the destruction the Malfoy allegiance to Voldemort had wrought, and was determined to put them on the right course again. After all the heartache she had endured the last year, Snape believed her when she said that it wasn't just how the Malfoys were perceived that she wanted to change. Lucius' damnable arrogance had led them to where they were now, and unless Draco really embraced the new order they would find themselves attached to the next Dark Lord in a generation's time. He had agreed. Therefore, he told Hermione that unless she wanted to find herself fighting a second Voldemort bankrolled by Malfoys by the time she was fifty, she had better make her way down to the orangery tomorrow and build some bridges. Sometimes he enjoyed flummoxing Gryffindors with honesty; it kept them on their toes.

Hermione was struck by how beautiful Mrs Malfoy was, even with the sunlight exposing every little line the last years had added around her eyes. She felt like something the cat had dragged in in comparison, still dressed in her Oxfam dresses from Huddersfield and with her hair growing out unevenly; she hadn't exactly made space in her calendar for any hair appointments this week.

She was met with exquisite courtesy, Mrs Malfoy being quite able to keep the conversation going while touching only upon unexceptionable subjects. It was like being transported into a Jane Austen novel, except that you're having tea with Miss Bingley rather than Elizabeth Bennett, she thought to herself. This woman can bite. Snape and Malfoy were there as well, joining in sometimes in the conversation but clearly leaving the stage to the women. Maybe that was the way Purebloods did things. The women handle small talk and housework, and the men do the Muggle-baiting and general heavy lifting, Hermione thought, taking care to put down her teacup without it clattering against the saucer.

She came away unharmed, still hungry due to the dainty cucumber sandwiches, and thoroughly off balance. Despite her misgivings, she continued to meet the Malfoys regularly. Lucius was mercifully still in Azkaban, so she didn't have to face him yet. She found some sort of common ground with Malfoy, quizzing him on his latest film discoveries ("This Indiana Jones guy is cool!") and gradually Mrs Malfoy became less stiff, and the suffocating air of propriety was lifted. Hermione watched and learnt, true to her nature, and after some time she could probably have passed herself off as a Pureblood, or attended Buckingham Castle for tea with the Queen without quaking in her boots. The Queen of England, after all, had not been a follower of Voldemort.

* * *

A whole cohort of Healers from St. Mungo's, all sworn to secrecy, had examined Snape. They tut-tutted over the lack of magical medical attention, carefully examined his scars and cast a swarm of targeted Healing Charms to heal any lingering effects of Nagini's attack. They warned him to refrain from any physical activities during the following week and not to overexert himself.

Snape promptly displayed his usual deference for health professionals, whether Muggle or magical, and proceeded to browbeat Charlie Weasley into Apparating with him to Spinner's End. He wanted to investigate what needed to be done to reconnect it to the Floo network, so he could get there on his own. As the wards had disintegrated when he was cursed at the Battle of Hogwarts, they had no warning of Rabastan Lestrange lying in wait to make the traitor pay, until it was almost too late. Together they managed to overpower Lestrange, but Snape took a hit in the fight. Charlie had the presence of mind to get him to St. Mungo's within seconds of him collapsing after securing Lestrange, which probably saved his life.

Snape awoke to the familiar sight of Hermione's face waiting to give him a thorough bollocking, and a feeling of magic bubbling through his veins like champagne. It was a faint spark compared to what he was used to, but it was sufficient to wandlessly Accio a smudged Kleenex from his civil service issue bed stand and to make Hermione promptly burst into tears of joy and relief.


	13. In Which They Live

Despite all the time they spent researching at Malfoy Manor, and later at the Department of Mysteries, Hermione's magic didn't return. Their research had tentatively established that the curse had tied their magic into a Gordian knot which couldn't be unravelled except by force. When Snape was close to dying at Spinner's End, a combination of the Potions he had ingested after being bitten by Nagini and his magic bursting free from the curse bindings had saved him. Short of manufacturing her own near demise, hoping that her magic would save her, there was no safe way of testing the theory on Hermione.

Hermione sat her GCSEs and A-levels in record time and enrolled at Oxford, sufficiently influenced by Slytherin ways that she didn't ask too many questions about strings being pulled on her behalf. She intended to show that she deserved her place, and there was enough precedence for preference being shown to veterans of Muggle wars to attend university that she was able to turn a blind eye to any machinations behind the scenes.

Severus settled in Cirencester, not far from Oxford, which had no wizarding population whatsoever. That suited him just fine. He terrorised his Muggle neighbours into leaving him well alone, and constructed on of the most advanced Potions laboratories in Britain, complete with a Potions garden he stoutly denied he had designed with any aesthetic considerations whatsoever. Hermione saw straight through his protestations, and spent as much time as she could in the walled, fragrant garden on warm summer evenings, watching butterflies flitting through the roses and poppies.

* * *

Severus found that he was happier than he had ever been in his life before. Having his magic back had made him truly feel like himself again, only without the constant worries and fear of the war. He had used the memories of Lily to propel himself forward through all those years, fused together by regret and jealousy and love. Now, he suddenly wanted to let go.

Potter was the unlikely instrument of his release.

The boy - alright, the man; he had himself truly become an adult around the same time as Potter, and there was no denying that the boy he had thought he'd known at Hogwarts bore only superficial resemblance to this earnest, measured man with a hint of steel to him, that he came to know after the war. Potter had grown up and become a very different man to his father. After he had been pushed to see beyond his preconceived opinions, he could see that Harry had a quiet self-confidence, while James Potter had been cocky. Harry knew about loss and grief, whereas his father had never lost the arrogance of youth, believing himself invincible until it was too late and bringing Lily down with him.

He recognised much of her in Harry; the regard for others, the loyalty to his friends, and occasionally he saw something of her charm flash in Harry's guileless eyes.

Getting to know Harry helped Snape to untangle Lily in his mind. For so long she had been simultaneously a talisman to wield against the darkness he was engulfed in, and a constant reminder that he could never be good enough, never repentant enough. Having cradled the memories of her for most of his life, the only love he was ever likely to experience, he was oddly… hopeful about the rest of his life once he relegated them to the past. He was a comparatively young wizard, and he had plenty of things to devote his time to that interested him and involved absolutely no snotty brats or dunderheads whatsoever (except the occasional client that slipped through his rigorous vetting process, which was designed to weed out the idiots early on).

He had a gaggle of people who would not leave him alone; he met Minerva, Filius, Rolanda Hooch and Pomona for poker every second week at Hogwarts, where he may or may not indulge in a brief excursion of stalking the corridors, to keep his billowing fresh, while possibly docking a few points. Minerva had not needed long to persuade him that, as a former Headmaster, he would always retain certain privileges at Hogwarts and was welcome back whenever he wanted to drop by.

The Order was more of a social vehicle these days, with parties and christenings and God knows what. Tonks, Kingsley and assorted Weasleys paid no attention to his lack of formal invitations to visit him in Cirencester, and dropped by regularly. He had a strong suspicion Hermione put them up to it in the beginning, but after a while he became accustomed to the stream of Floo visitors, and later he would sometimes even admit that he found them a welcome diversion. Harry Potter turned up at his doorstep, regular as clockwork, on the first Monday of every month with a bottle of Rioja and a takeaway. And Hermione… Contrary to his expectations she had shown no sign of dropping his acquaintance once they settled into their post-war lives. She flitted in and out of his house at will, popping in at least every few days, usually not bothering with any particular reason for her visits. The fireplace in her Oxford apartment had been connected to the Floo network and carefully warded by Snape and Harry, and then double-checked by Kingsley and Tonks to be sure that no one who meant her harm could come through.

Severus became increasingly worried about Hermione as years went by, and no change in her magical status appeared. Thanks to reading her course books on the sly, he could diagnose a bad case of survivor's guilt in himself, but it was also a deep concern for how the brightest witch of her generation was coping with losing her magic, that had defined her most of her life. Such a waste. He knew that had it been himself, living with no prospect of his magic returning, he would… Well, he couldn't conceive of what he would have done, even after having had months to seriously consider the prospect. He wouldn't have ended his life, but he wouldn't have looked forward to living it as a Squib with equanimity either.

He never stopped searching for information that could help, looking for rare books that could contain clues to even more obscure publications, or analysing the return of his own magic and trying to unravel how it had occurred. Hermione wasn't very interested in hearing about his progress. He knew that for all her expressiveness and impulsive gestures she preferred to do her grieving in private, and it was painfully obvious that throwing herself into student life at Oxford was as much a distraction as anything else. Suppression may have been sufficient to get him through all those years, but Hermione had a rather different personality.

He didn't know how to bring it up with her without implying that she was inadequate, or didn't belong in their world, so he tried to discuss it with Potter. Harry told Snape what Hermione had said to him when he had pressed her, concerned that she was bottling it all up and carrying her worries on her own, as she was wont to do.

"I just think it's something I have to accept. There are so many worse things that could have happened in the war; things that did happen in the war, that it seems… churlish to put so much importance on the loss of my magic." She had looked earnestly at Harry, willing him to understand.  
"If I would have given a choice between my magic-" She would never say 'being a witch'. That cut a bit too close to home. She was still a witch and part of the magical world, but with a kind of disability. "- and, well, someone's life, how could I have picked my magic? How could I choose magic over you being here, Harry? Or having my parents back? It's just like Remus' legs," - Lupin had lost both legs in the fighting - "we came out of the war a little bit worse for wear." He had gently wiped away a tear that fell down her cheek, and wrapped her against his chest.  
"I – I miss it so much, Harry," she got out and then cried desolately for a short while, as she hugged him close to her. He held her securely, much more comfortable with comforting crying girls now than when they were growing up. He preferred to regard that as a sign of maturity, rather than an indication of causality. He never made Ginny cry; she threw things instead.

As Hermione recovered, she continued trying to explain what she'd slowly had come to accept."I miss that feeling of power, but I can't have it now and there is no point in crying over it. I could spend all my life being bitter, but then I'd just be wasting it. I really think I can do something with my life even without magic, so I try to feel sorry for myself now and again and then move on."

* * *

Eventually her situation became public knowledge. The Daily Prophet had a great run of it, first painting her as a tragic heroine, and, when she refused to comment, as a pathetic invalid who desperately sought to cling on to a place in wizarding society without meriting it. The general reaction of the wizarding world initially was to treat her with suspicion. Hermione found herself shunned by old acquaintances like Zacharias Smith, Tom at the Leaky Cauldron, and the staff at Flourish & Blotts in Diagon Alley.

"I won't bloody stand for it, Hermione! Where would they have been if you hadn't fought in the war?" Ron had worked himself up to a vintage Weasley conniption fit after seeing the less than flattering press coverage and hearing the rest from Harry. He was pacing around her apartment in Oxford.

He dropped by often. Unlike Harry, who liked to listen to music when she was studying, the two of them sitting in in companionable silence, Ron usually was fascinated by the telly when he called over, and wanted her to explain what was going on when he was befuddled by the Muggles. He was often uncertain what was real and what was due to special effects. He had also got sucked into East Enders, the great leveller. She had found few things in life more surreal than overhearing Ron discuss Troy and Irene's affair with Snape at the Order Christmas party the previous year. Dragons and Quidditch and other magical things that had astonished her when she was eleven were all very well, but what really amazed her as she grew older was people's extraordinary capacity to change.

"Didn't see Zacharias Smith camping in the Forest of Dean, did you? That's some cheek he has, the twat!" He raised his hands, preventing Hermione from interjecting.

"I know, we're 'doomed to repeat the past' and so on, but I'm not judging him on what he did when he was seventeen, am I? He's being a git now, that's why I hate the two-faced bastard! And that goes for the rest of them too. First you're the Golden Girl, Hermione the Heroine, and now they treat you like something the kneazle dragged in!" he ranted and pounded the back of the couch with his fist for emphasis. Hermione was touched by his concern, but was more immediately concerned with the state of the furniture.

"Please sit down, Ron. You know what people are like. They'll get used to it." He flounced gracelessly on the couch, fourteen stone solid Keeper pushing the aging springs to breaking point.

"Ron! I swear to God, you should get a job at IKEA testing furniture so you could stop tormenting mine!"

"Sorry, Hermione, I just can't believe those idiots." His blue eyes looked up at her, disarming her with his sudden understanding of the real issue:

"It will be even more dangerous for you now, you know. If anyone has a score to settle, now they'll know you won't be able to fight back." Most of the Death Eaters were accounted for, but one or two had either perished without a trace or absconded successfully from the aftermath of the battle. None of them had had any run-ins with Hermione in particular as far as the Order knew, but she would be an easy target.

"I know, Ron," she sighed. He wouldn't leave until she had promised to come to the Auror gym in the bowels of the Ministry next week, so he could show her the Muggle self-defence techniques he'd learnt in Auror training. Her flat was warded, she had a secret address and went under a false name at Oxford, and her friends had volunteered to escort her whenever she liked; there wasn't much more that could be done if she was to have any sort of life at all, so it would simply have to be enough.

* * *

**A/N:** GCSEs=O.W.L.s and A-levels=N.E.W.T.s for Muggles.


	14. In Which An Irresistible Force Meets

In Which An Irresistible Force Meets An Immovable Object

* * *

Severus persisted in thinking of them as Hermione's suitors, although he was well aware that the term was archaic. He had grown up among the Purebloods of Slytherin, after all, in an atmosphere that he afterwards thought must have been quite similar to Britain in the first years of the 20th century, before the First World War. It had been a way of life which seemed like something from a different world only a few decades later; if it had shaped the way he thought about the world irrevocably, then so be it.

None of them was good enough for her (she was of course the brightest witch of her generation) until Rolf Scamander came along. Lanky and blond, he ambled through life with razor-sharp wit and an easy charm.

Severus hated him on sight.

Scamander was clean, untainted by war and pettiness, and maybe that's why he went down such a storm in wizarding England where aristocratic insouciance long had been tainted by association with the Malfoys (who were back in vogue but not universally liked). Severus, having made a virtue of being contrary long before he took the Dark Mark, hated him even more since they might have got along well had things been otherwise – if he could befriend Potter surely a Swedish wizard would be nothing out of the ordinary.

Yes, had Scamander not set eyes on Hermione at the garden party Narcissa held at Malfoy Manor that year (after Hermione introduced her to "Hello!" many of Narcissa's new ideas could be traced back to the Windsors, the one Muggle family she admired), it was very possible things would have been different. As it was, Snape was unencumbered by any impediment to the antipathy he formed, when he saw Scamander undertake the delicate task of getting Hermione to enjoy herself at a formal gathering full of people she mistrusted, and succeed.

She was flushed and happy, the pinch of her high heels that she had been complaining about seemingly forgotten as she walked the orchard with the younger man. Snatches of their lively conversation were carried back on the soft summer wind to the brooding Potions Master. Even though he hadn't been spying for years, Snape was not completely useless; not a move betrayed his interest in the young couple, and he looked no more jaundiced than usual when wheeled out by Narcissa and forced to endure the company of dunderheads in the name of society.

Once home, he couldn't sleep. It was too warm; he ended up pacing between his rooms insides and his garden like a madman, unable to sit still. It was none of his business, and he should stop behaving like a lecherous old man and put her out of his mind, he admonished himself. Try as he might, he couldn't banish the thought that Rolf Scamander was Severus Snape as he might have been, had he been blessed with loving parents, social skills and a smaller nose. Consequently, had his life been blessed by the Fates instead of cursed, he could have been walking among Narcissa's roses at dawn with a laughing Hermione.

The courtship between Hermione and Scamander apparently proceeded unhindered; Severus saw her as often as usual, and she spoke artlessly of the exhibit at the Tate Scamander had brought her to (thanks to Hermione, Severus was no stranger to the Tate Gallery, although he drew the line at the Tate Modern), and how she had repaid his kindness by showing him around Oxford. All through the summer and into the autumn, Scamander showed no signs of absconding back to Sweden, and he seemed to become a fixture in Hermione's life.

Severus had wrestled with himself to try and feel happy for her sake, that she had finally met someone who was her equal. He recalled that Ronald Weasley had been rather disappointed when she hadn't fallen into his arms just after the war; anyone with half a brain would have seen that he would have bored her senseless in a few years. In retrospect it was obvious that she hadn't been serious in her previous flirtations – Roger Davies and Theodore Nott sprung to mind – but he hadn't seen the difference until Scamander was on the scene. It took two ruined batches of Wolfsbane to regain his equilibrium when he realised that there might have been many more relationships that he hadn't even known about.

Watching her like a hawk, he saw no move to make the relationship more serious until Christmas.

As usual, he went to the Order Christmas party at Grimmauld Place the night before Christmas Eve. It was normally an opportunity to get gloriously shitfaced and sing maudlin songs with Rolanda, George Weasley, and Aberforth Dumbledore, while making sure he stuffed his face with as much of Molly's Christmas food as possible, dodging an overenthusiastic Hagrid and catching a glimpse of Hermione now and then. He hadn't realised how much he enjoyed the predictability of it all until this year. The Scamander situation ensured that the unexpected pleasure he usually derived from being in a house packed full of people he had fought alongside, envied, been vilified by and ultimately made his peace with was gone.

He knew Hermione, and he knew that while she wouldn't rush into anything, she would consider all sides of the matter at hand and make a decision how to proceed before anyone's time was wasted. If she did intend to get serious with Scamander, it would be soon.

Entering the brightly lit house to the sound of Jingle Bells, Deck the Halls and God Rest Ye, Merry Hippogriffs all at once, complete with olfactory accompaniment courtesy of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, he had even prepared himself to see Scamander at the party.

However, Grimmauld Place was blessedly free of six foot three Swedish wizards with impeccable manners, he established after seemingly aimlessly drifting around the house and greeting people with a raised eyebrow, or, in Minerva's case, stretching to a celebratory restrained nod. He reduced his mead intake to remain watchful through the night while maintaining an inebriated facade, and caught Harry trying to get Hermione to speak to him privately several times. She imbibed rather more heavily than usual, and didn't seem amenable to Potter's overtures. When she was eventually cornered by him on the landing on the second floor, Severus was at hand and able to Disillusion himself and follow them into the impersonal guest room that had replaced Regulus Black's room. He was on the inside of the silencing wards hastily erected by a flick of Harry's wand.

"I don't know why you're badgering me tonight, Harry - can you not just enjoy the party?" she whinged, trying to put Potter off the scent if Severus was any judge. Potter wasn't having it either.

"You know we won't see each other until Boxing Day, and then we'll be lucky if we can hear anything over George and the kids, much less get to talk alone. You know what the Burrow is like at Christmas." Even if she didn't, Severus did, and he shuddered at the memory. "Then we'll be at the Malfoy Ball at New Year's, and I don't fancy my chances looking for somewhere to have a cosy chat at Malfoy Manor." Severus remembered Harry's shell-shocked expression after being caught with Ginny by Mr Malfoy at the Winter Ball last year, after trying to sneak off to the more private areas of the Manor, and almost smiled at that.

"No." Potter looked at her, serious now.

"Exactly. And after that it might be too late." She looked away. "You know what I'm going to say, Hermione. Why would you throw this away, when it's going so well with Rolf?" His earnest green eyes bore into her, and Severus, who was staying motionless by the far wall looking over Hermione's shoulder, was rattled by how much his gaze looked like Lily's at that moment. It could still take him by surprise and catch him by the throat.

"You're going to pull away again, and bring it to an end, and for what?" She didn't answer. "Nothing will change for you, he is still the same and there is nothing that says that he'll ever see you that way!" His words cut her to the quick, it seemed, and she barely seemed to keep the tears at bay. "I'm sorry, Hermione, I don't want to hurt you, but you're better off facing up to reality. You can't wait and hope that he discovers that he's loved you all this time, like some bloody Harlequin novel!" He hugged her, holding her close to him as if that would lessen the impact of his words.

"I don't even know if he can love anyone like that," she sobbed, and Snape wanted to strangle Potter for hurting her like that, while furiously trying to figure out whom they were talking about. Even the bloody Death Eaters hadn't usually been this oblique.

"I know, Harry," she said when she finally had calmed down. "Believe me, I know. But everything else feels like second best, you know? Imagine if you had to shack up with Parvati because Ginny wouldn't give you the time of the day?" He shuddered, and she almost laughed.

"Not everyone gets to be with who they want, Harry," she said gently. "But it's not fair on someone else to string them along either, so it's better not to get too serious. I'll be fine. I've got a great life and lovely friends, you don't need to worry about me."

In the end, it seemed as if she comforted him more than the other way around, and Severus was left trying to decipher their conversation after they exited the room. So it looked like she was going to give the Swedish wizard the slip due to some other infatuation – but who could that be? Someone who didn't return her interest, by all accounts. He knew intellectually that she wasn't particularly beautiful, had even heard her described as a typical plain Jane by some dunderhead, but he couldn't see it. Her face was so expressive, full of life, and so dear to him that he couldn't analyse her appearance or amputate parts from the whole and deem them average. She was loving and kind, fierce and courageous, clever and loyal, and he was unable to see how anyone wouldn't love all that if it was offered to them.

He did feel a bit ashamed for intruding on their privacy, and knew that Hermione would strangle him if she ever found out. Look at him, reduced to spying on the people he was close to, because he was too bloody cowardly to actually talk to Hermione. It would be agony worse than a Cruciatus Curse from the thankfully departed Bellatrix to listen to Hermione telling him of her unrequited love, but if that was what she needed he would grit his teeth and listen. No matter. She would open up to Potter and tell him what she was feeling, since she had obviously figured out long ago that her old Potions professor could offer her nothing in that department.


	15. In Which A Gordian Knot Is Untangled

**A/N:**

This is the last proper chapter; there is an epilogue to follow as well, which will be posted in the next few days. Thank you very much for reading!

* * *

Soon after the war, Hermione had used her formidable research skills to track down her parents in Australia. The indefatigable Tonks had been dispatched to lift the Memory Charms, together with Hermione and Ron, who had insisted on coming along to support her. It was a measure of how things had changed that Ron had looked towards Snape and Harry when announcing his intentions at an Order meeting, and that Snape had signalled his approval with a tiny nod. This rather patronising exchange had not been lost on Hermione, who had made it clear that she was Not Impressed once the meeting was over. Harry had a bit more sense, so he escaped her censure.

No one had ever dared quizzing Hermione on whether her parents had consented to being dispatched as Monica and Wendell Wilkins, or even been offered a choice, so it came as a relief to everyone to find out that they had gone voluntarily. They hadn't been happy about it or made the decision lightly, but Hermione had cried and cajoled and finally convinced them to go, after persuading them that whatever they did, she would still go out into the war. As she would have been eighteen in little more than a month, there would have been absolutely nothing they could have done to stop her. She had also pointed out that if she had wanted, she could have joined the regular army. They had raised her to make her own decisions and be true to herself, and that's why she was going with Harry, she had explained. Finally they had accepted that there was nothing they could do, and that they would be best off somewhere safer than in Britain.

After their memories were returned to them, Jean and Alan Granger moved back to the UK into their old house, to be near their daughter. They were very careful not to show it, but no one doubted that they were elated to both have their daughter back and that she was spending a lot of her time living in the same world as them. She wasn't quite the same as she used to be. They noticed little things about her; she got nervous when she didn't know where the nearest exit was, and her eyes would fill with tears over random things, like the emerald-green grass at the Piazza dei Miracoli in Pisa, or when she heard the theme of East Enders, but they slowly got used to each other again.

When they got a call on a cold January day that Hermione had been knocked down on her bike in Oxford and had been taken to hospital, Jean's hands fumbled as she dialled her daughter's former Potions professor. She knew he lived in Cirencester, but he could be at the hospital in a few minutes unlike the Grangers, who had to get through the M25 at rush hour. Mr Snape would know what was best to do for her daughter, she told herself; whether to keep her at the John Radcliffe or dispatching her to St. Elmo's or whatever it was called for magical care.

Snape entered the hospital like an avenging angel, bearing down on his target. He made short work of the medical staff and dispatched his Patronus to Potter. Why the dunderhead didn't just get a mobile phone was beyond his ken. Right now it could be the difference between life and death; Severus had to get Hermione to St. Mungo's now. She looked pale and peaceful as she lay on the metal trolley, not betraying that she had brain damage getting worse with every faint breath she drew. He had locked and warded her room, and created an emergency Portkey when Potter finally replied. All set at St. Mungo's. He scooped up Hermione, his hands clammy with fear as he disconnected her from the Muggle monitors. They had arranged for Harry to be in charge of smoothing things over at the John Radcliffe afterwards; they didn't often have unconscious patients walking out on them.

* * *

It had been more than twenty-four hours, and Hermione was still unconscious. Alan and Jean had arrived only an hour after Hermione, to be greeted by a stony-faced Snape. All he had to tell them was that the Healers had taken one look at Hermione and snatched her out of his arms, dangling drip and all. Since then, Alan and Harry had taken turns pacing around the waiting room, which had filled up quickly with Weasleys and other wizarding friends. Snape sat expressionless in a corner; Ginny didn't think he had moved since her mother brought sandwiches in and forced him to take one, and that had been hours ago. He looked like he was back at Hogwarts that terrible year, the same deep lines she remembered being etched on his face then. She wrapped her arms around Harry to hold him close to her, not wanting to think of what losing Hermione would do to any of them.

* * *

Harry looked like he had had something on his mind, Snape noted and filed that little bit of absolutely fucking useless information with the rest; Alan and Jean Granger were trying to get some rest at the Burrow but would probably be back within the hour; Ginny Potter was dozing off, leaning against her father, who had dropped in between Wizengamot sittings, his plush, purple robes contrasting horribly with his daughter's hair; and Draco Malfoy had returned to the manor after a brief visit, to report to his mother that there still was no change after more than three days and check some references for Snape in the library.

Severus was at the end of his endurance. He had moved between frantic activity, trying force the Healers to let him assist with potions (which they had sensibly declined, in case he blew up his own laboratory and himself with it), abject horror at the tentative diagnosis which was irreparable brain damage, and just being miserable with fear and longing and pain. He didn't have enough energy to do anything other than observing the rest of them, and simply ignored the attempts of Minerva or Molly Weasley to comfort him somewhat.

"Severus." Someone touched his elbow, and he turned his head to find Harry. Splendid. "Would you come outside with me for a while?" He hadn't been outside for days, and he hadn't left the waiting area since the last time he'd gone home to have a shower. Which he ought to have done again before now, he noticed and winced. Well, then. Better let Harry get it off his chest, whatever it was, since he was not deterred by the smell.

The smoking area at St. Mungo's was clearly designed to make its visitors give up the habit, offering all the comfort and charm of a vandalised bus stop.

"Are you…" Harry started again, the words coming out in a rush. "Is there any way you feel guilty for Hermione's accident?" Severus looked at him as if he had two heads. Was this what he had been dragged out here for? Harry waited; Snape would almost have said he looked hopeful if he hadn't been too affronted by the inane question to notice.

"No! You can spare me your half-baked psychoanalysis; I'm going back inside. And I have absolutely no desire to talk about it. Whatever _it_ is."

"Wait, please!" Harry grabbed his arm to prevent him from leaving. "I've only seen you acting like this once, in Dumbledore's memories, and I had to be sure." Snape could only stare at him, not liking the direction of this conversation one bit.

"Look, I'd like to think I'm a bit better at reading people than when I was a kid, especially you. You're clearly going through hell at the moment. Even Ron is coping better, and he's horrible when someone is in hospital."

"Your point, Potter?" Harry knew he was right when his surname came out with as much venom as it had during Double Potions with Slytherin.

"You love Hermione. You're in love with her." Severus looked at Harry, older now than James Potter had ever become, and saw him as his own man, not as his parents' son. He did look like a friend you could confide in, with his earnest eyes and firmly set chin. What was the point in denying he loved her anyway? He was reasonably sure it wouldn't be thrown back in his face, and he didn't really care anymore anyway. His focus was firmly attuned to the still figure in the hospital bed three floors up.

"Yes, I love her." He was taken unawares by the wide grin and the slap on the back his words were met with, and had to grab one of the derelict orange plastic chairs to regain his balance.

"Brilliant!" Harry's enthusiasm seemed to light up the tawdry enclosure, but he realised that Snape still looked as grim as before.

"She loves you too, you know." He took pity on Severus, who seemed to have difficulty finding his voice, vacillating between incredulity and fear that Harry was trying to fool him. "She really does, she has for ages." Something changed in Severus' eyes, as he seemed to finally accept that it wasn't a joke, and Harry's grin returned. "I don't care what Hermione will do to me when she finds out that I told you, it's still worth it." Severus was quiet for a long time, and Harry moved to break the silence.

"I know you followed us into the spare room at Grimmauld at the Christmas party this year." This Severus could deal with.

"How?"

"I am an Auror, you know." He should be concerned that Potter could get one up on him, but he didn't really give a toss right now.

"So what she was saying…"

"Hermione has been in love with you for years now, but she never thought you would love her back." His green eyes bore into Severus. "She thinks you're still in love with my mum. That's why she didn't want to tell you. She thinks you wouldn't want to be friends with her anymore if you knew-" He correctly interpreted Snape's glare as vehement denial, and hastened to add: "I know, I know, but that's what she thinks. I figured the least I could do was to find out if you felt the same way about her."

Severus had had to slide down on one of the orange chairs, which creaked ominously under his weight, to gather himself. He put his head in his hands and tried to see the past few years from her point of view. She had always been more affectionate than what he was used to, but he had got used to her casual touches over the years. She did seem to spend a disproportionate amount of time with him rather than her other friends, but he hadn't wanted to analyse their friendship for fear that he would find that it was only pity that led her to his door so often. Hermione would always fight for the mistreated and the downtrodden; he had assumed that his pitiful life so far had put him on her list of worthy causes when they had been thrown together. They were alike in many ways, and he had credited the friendship that sprung up between them to the obvious affinities between them. Never had he dared think that she might love him back! He lifted his head from his hands, and found himself pulled to his feet by Harry.

"Let's go back and see if she has woken up yet, shall we? At least you can give her something to wake up to."

* * *

" … the monkshood reacted adversely when I mashed it, so I tried to mince it instead. I think you would have been intrigued with the result. Needless to say, I will need new windows and the world doesn't yet have a cheaper alternative to Shrinking Solution." So she was back in class then. That was OK. She edged back towards blissful oblivion, but the smooth, lecturing voice changed texture and became jagged and urgent, pulling her back towards wakefulness.

"Please come back, Hermione. I don't care if Potter got things arseways as usual and you never give me as much as a smile again. I'd give up anything, anything in the world as long as you wake up again. You can get together with Rolf bloody Scamander or even Longbottom for all I care, I won't be jealous anymore. Please just come back. Please, Hermione." She was pulled back from the sweet nothingness, and gradually became aware of her surroundings. The smell of St. Mungo's, the faint scent of Snape's lavender and anise cologne, and she knew where she was and that she was safe.

She couldn't remember what had happened, but that was only to be expected. She would find out soon enough. Someone shifted next to her and she opened her eyes to the familiar dark shape of Severus, looking like he hadn't slept for a week. He was holding her hand. It felt nice. She was so pleased that he was touching her, for once. She always had to ration her touches so she didn't make him feel awkward or make him think she was clingy. Maybe he did like it if he was doing it on his own accord. She was still feeling a bit drowsy and confused. He sighed and rubbed his face, and started pulling his hand out of hers as he rose out of his chair. She tried to hold on to his hand to make him stay.

When he registered the pressure of her hand he swirled around in a cloud of black wool, hands landing on either side of her shoulders. She smiled at him, and she could pinpoint the exact moment he realised that everything would be all right. He returned her smile tremulously, and drew a long, heaving breath that ended as a sob, and buried his head in the mattress beside her, his shoulders shaking.

"Severus?" He drew one long, last breath and sat up to face her, eyes red-rimmed.

"Forgive me. You have been unconscious for almost a week, and the Healers couldn't detect any brain activity."

"What happened, was I attacked by someone?" He snorted, despite himself.

"No, you were knocked off your bike by some motorist who hit a spot of black ice."

"Oh." She enjoyed just lying there, returning his gaze. He looked at her like she was something precious, like she was something wonderful he had found against hope. She tried to remember what he had said as she was waking up; she had a feeling it was something important.

"What was that you said about not being jealous anymore?" Evidently she wasn't fully herself; she would never ask him such personal questions normally, at least not without careful consideration first. He looked nervous, she noticed with disbelief. Severus Snape might be contrary, surly, brilliant, generous, loyal and brave, but being nervous was definitely not normal for him.

"Hermione, I… " Damn it, he could do this! "Hermione, I love you. If I had my way you would never spend another second with those nincompoops." He suddenly lost his confidence. Who was he to think he was better than them, anyway? None of them had taken the Dark Mark or spent their life trying to atone for their sins by committing more of them, in the name of the Greater Good. "If… You don't have to-"

Hermione's heart rushed, and she was suddenly feeling giddy with joy and hope and happiness; the same feeling she got the first time she used magic or when she was skiing down a perfectly smooth slope in the blazing sunlight, or when she found out that they had won the war. The world seemed to have stopped for breath; she was still in the same shabby-looking hospital ward, but everything was turned on its head. The feeling of rightness was so strong that she got tears in her eyes. She found herself thinking: 'This is it, this is it, _this is it!'_ as she stretched her arms out to him.

Severus had looked down and didn't see the expression on her face, so it came as a surprise when he felt her hands in his hair and her lips against his. Kissing Hermione was nothing like he had expected; it was urgent and warm and he wanted it to last forever. When they finally, reluctantly broke apart her cheeks were rosy and her eyes shining.

"I love you too, Severus. I have for years, but I never thought you'd love me back-" He silenced her with another kiss. He didn't want this… thing between them to start with any omissions. He probably would screw things up anyway, so he'd better confess like a Gryffindor to get this over with.

"I know that. Harry took me aside when we were waiting for you to wake up and told me." He congratulated himself on choosing the right option when he saw her eyes light up in anger and she sat up straighter in bed.

"Harry James POTTER!" she almost shouted. "I can't believe he told you that! I'll make the Bat-Bogey Hex look like a bloody picnic when I get hold of him!" she continued, momentarily distracted from Severus. It didn't matter whether Hermione could do any magic or not; when her hair appeared to stand out on its own wise men didn't get in her way.

Her raised voice and wards being tripped had alerted the Healers and the people waiting outsides that something was happening, and just as she was about to turn back to Severus and forget about Harry, they all poured in, relieved beyond measure that she was awake and talking. After half an hour she had had enough, and got Severus to empty the room so they could resume their private... conversation. He took inordinate pleasure in closing the door in Ron's face.


	16. Epilogue - In Which All Is Well

Epilogue – In Which All Is Well

Hermione arrived at the Three Broomsticks half an hour before the party was due to begin. Justin Finch-Fletchley, Draco and George had obviously decided that a forlorn-looking bunch of transfigured cherries (in homage to the birthday boy's cherrywood wand, they loftily informed her) and some streamers in Gryffindor red, would be sufficient as decorations for a twenty-fifth, and sat down for a pint instead.

"Merlin wept," she muttered, opening her canvas bag and pulling out a neat banner reading "Happy birthday, Neville". She badgered George until he created a few bunches of balloons around the tables they had reserved, and fussed over how to arrange them for few minutes before they looked exactly like she wanted them to, while the others teased her for her perfectionism. She knew George could have created a much more polished result with as much effort as he expended wiggling his left eyebrow, but she had finally realised that it didn't matter. Not being able to do magic was more of an inconvenience now, truly; what really mattered was they people she loved and that she was able to contribute something to the world through her work, not how she did it.

She gave Luna a wave as she came into the pub, blinking as she left the bright sunlight outsides. Finally satisfied with her handiwork, Hermione went up to the bar. She slid up behind a menacing figure in dark robes who was about to get his order in, and wrapped her arms around him, burrowing her nose into the fine wool and its familiar faint smell of asphodel and lavender from his garden. She knew he would have felt her scent, and known it was her even as she was sneaking up behind him. Most of her friends who had been in the war preferred to sit with their backs to the wall, but Severus was more paranoid than most; you didn't sneak up on him unless you wanted to be Stunned. Unless you were his beloved fiancée, of course.

"Hello, my love." He turned around and kissed her.

"Hello, yourself. The Ministry is still standing then, I take it?"

They spoke quietly about their day, as the pub filled up with Hogwarts staff and past students, including the Herbology apprentice Neville whose entrance was greeted with loud whoops and cheers. Looking at them, former enemies and comrades in arms mixing under her flagging balloons, Hermione hoped that they would all make better work of peace this time around.

* * *

**A/N:**

Thank you all very much for reading! This was my first fanfic, so if you have any suggestions or comments I would be very grateful if you would share.

Hermione doesn't ever regain her magic. I wanted to write about how life isn't always perfect, and how we can make the most of what actually is, rather than dwelling on what could have been.

I'm halfway through writing a Draco/Hermione fic; once it's at the editing stage I'll start posting it, so do follow me if you want to find out when it goes up. Draco is a slippery fellow to write, so I'll have to make him behave first...


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